Masquerade
by l'ombre de tes yeux
Summary: Direct sequel to The Art of War. Kira reluctantly goes undercover to spark a revolution on Cardassia Prime, but some people have other ideas. K/Du. All recognisable characters and settings are property of ParaBorg etc.
1. All Of This And Nothing

**A/N: **Well, it turns out I've got more time than I thought, since I've just lost my job :( so here we go, the sequel to the Art of War. Still playing with ideas right now so the first couple of chapters might appear quite slowly, but it should speed up once I've figured out where I'm going.

Feedback of any kind gratefully received, as always.

**A/N Supplemental: **I've finally remembered to put in visible line breaks. I know it was kind of confusing before because FFN ate up all my hard returns and I didn't realise until about last week. Belated apologies for not doing so before.

**1: ALL OF THIS AND NOTHING**

_You didn't leave me anything_

_That I could understand_

– _Psychedelic Furs_

Kira was looking in the mirror. She'd been doing that a lot over the last few weeks; she was trying to remember what she'd looked like as Iliana Ghemor. It was an entirely masochistic exercise, because every single second she'd spent as a "Cardassian" had been like a nightmare from which she could not wake. Yet she kept doing it, with a regularity that bordered on obsession.

_Take care... Iliana. _Dukat's last words to her on that final morning as he'd been taken away. They resounded in her head over and over, got into her dreams at night, gave her no peace. Why had he called her Iliana? Was it some kind of weird joke that only he would find funny? One final wind-up to remind her of who and what he was? Or was it something else – a message that she could not read, a hint she could not take? If only she could just _ask_ him, or rather, storm up and demand an answer, watch his face as he cracked that grin of his, wait in a fever of impatience and something that used to be anger as he spun it out, then abruptly pulled the rug with a disarming explanation. The blush afterwards at his mocking laughter when she found out it was a perfectly simple answer.

She snorted. Perfectly simple? Dukat? The day that anything involving Dukat had a simple answer would be the day Kai Winn danced naked in Jalanda Square in front of ten thousand people. She shuddered at the thought, and tried to turn her attention back to her reflection. Black hair instead of red, long and sleek and strangely heavy like a wet cloth stitched to her skull. Grey, tight-feeling scales that were cold and papery to the touch, unlike her own skin. A kind of angularity that had never been part of her; she was curves and arches, not those straight hard lines. Only the eyes were the same; she'd never have Cardassian eyes. Tekeny had said she was beautiful, but she had seen only hideousness, only the face of a stranger superimposed over her own without warning, only a violation of her identity – and for what? All so they could trap him. Cardassians and their traps! And she was caught in a damn good one herself...

'Odo to Kira,' said her comm, breaking off that particular train of thought, but scarcely improving her mood. Things between her and Odo were still very strained; they'd been keeping interactions to a stilted, over-formal minimum because it was just too painful otherwise. She hadn't arranged anything with him now, so she wondered what the occasion was.

'Go ahead.'

'I thought you'd want to know that the Bajoran government have agreed without question to exonerate Rom of all crimes. He's coming back on the evening transport.'

She didn't fail to pick up on how embarrassed he sounded, but the imminent return of the goofy, sweet-natured Ferengi made her smile all the same. Leeta had been unbearable the last week or so, constantly asking when he was coming home, and Kira hated turning her away with the same answer every time.

'That's wonderful. I'll go and meet him, make sure he gets an official welcome home. The staff briefing will probably be done by then...'

She hesitated a second, then thought what the hell. This stiff, awkward silence between her and Odo instead of their solid, trusting friendship felt like the loss of a limb, and she wanted that limb back before she got too used to being without.

'You want to come with me, Odo?'

She heard him hesitate too, almost heard the grimace on his face. She knew Rom wouldn't hold it against him, but that wasn't the point. Odo would hold it against himself. And Quark would probably be there, which wouldn't help any.

'Yes, I suppose I'd better. I'll see you at the briefing, Major.'

And that was that. Kira was left with her thoughts of traps and missing limbs, the memory of a face not her own staring back from the mirror, and a sardonic grin. Cardassian eyes.

_Take care... Iliana._

'OK, here we go,' Sisko announced as soon as they'd all clustered around the long table in the wardroom. 'We've got some good news and some bad news. Which would you like to hear first?'

'If the bad news is about those power conduits in the docking ring again, then that's not news,' O'Brien grumbled. 'And no, I still haven't fixed the damn things, before anyone asks.'

Kira shot him a sympathetic look. He wasn't having a nice time. The station was still riddled with damaged circuitry, power outages, malfunctioning systems and a whole host of other problems, and it was over a month since the battle. He and his teams were run off their feet – she knew, because she organised all the shift rotas, and she wouldn't be in his shoes for anything.

'Let us hear the bad news first. Warriors do not shrink from adversity,' Worf intoned. He looked even more disgruntled than usual, and Jadzia, sitting next to him with her hands wrapped around his arm, was smiling very smugly about something. Her blue eyes twinkled as she grinned impishly at Kira. Sisko shrugged.

'Alright. The bad news is, we've had reports of yet another Dominion raiding party headed this way, presumably attempting to disable the minefield again. I've asked Starfleet Command to send us reinforcements but they won't get here until tomorrow, while the Jem'Hadar will probably arrive some time tonight.'

'If they arrive at all!' Bashir remarked indignantly. 'After what happened last time, I'm inclined to take that with a pinch of salt. I'd really rather not have to empty the infirmary and put all my teams on call if I don't need to.'

There was general agreement with this. Three days ago, they'd received word that a Jem'Hadar fleet were tearing towards DS9, the station had gone into panic mode, everyone scrambled for the nearest weapon locker, O'Brien nearly bust a gut trying to fix the torpedoes... and they'd all spent a tense, jittery night waiting for a fleet that turned out to be nothing more than a sensor error, misread by a nervous ensign pulling the graveyard shift at the relay station.

'Yeah, but if it's not just a sensor blip, then we're in big trouble if we haven't got those torpedoes,' O'Brien countered. 'Major, I dunno what you did to them, but the launching mechanisms are fried.'

'Chief, I keep telling you, ask Quark about it. I had nothing to do with it,' Kira answered automatically, not wanting to go through the whole dissection of that day yet again. A sequence of events printed so indelibly on her memory should not be so hard for other people to grasp, and they'd all read her reports. O'Brien looked like he was about to ask her something else, but Sisko saved her by snapping back to business.

'Well, just keep running sensor scans, keep checking with the relay stations, and make sure we're as ready as we can be for whatever turns up. You all know the drill, people.'

'Is it time for the good news now?' Jadzia asked, fairly bouncing up and down in her seat with excitement. 'I don't know about anyone else, but I'm getting pretty sick of all these raiding parties and I've got something _much_ more interesting to announce. Go on, Benjamin, can I tell them?'

'Patience, Old Man, all in good time!' Sisko laughed, while Worf looked faintly ill. 'There's actually two bits of good news. First off, I'm glad to announce that Rom has been exonerated of all crimes by the Bajoran government, and he's arriving back here on the evening transport.'

'About time! Maybe he'll be able to help me with the damn torpedoes, because I'm sure as hell not asking Quark to do it,' O'Brien muttered amongst the smiles. Kira noticed that Odo was not really joining in; instead he stood even straighter than usual, slightly apart from the rest of the group. She knew it was partly her fault; she'd said and done some awful things to him over the last month or so. He'd done some awful things to himself too. It might get better with time, but that didn't help either of them now.

'And secondly,' Jadzia broke in loudly, 'you'd better dig out your glad rags... ' She grinned at Worf. 'Because a certain bad-tempered Klingon has agreed to marry me next month and you're all invited!'

'Jadzia, I wish you would take this a little more seriously,' Worf complained as everyone pressed forward to congratulate the happy couple. Bashir, Kira noticed, looked gutted underneath his slightly-too-cheerful grin; it was common knowledge that he'd carried a torch for Jadzia ever since he'd met her, and he obviously hadn't expected this. Odo also looked frozen, stiff and awkward at the back of the crowd with his eyes carefully not meeting hers. Those we love too much are never the same as those who love us too much. When would it ever be simple, without all the questions and the doubts and the fears? Why all these hateful tangles, why always three sides where there was only room for two? A Klingon and a Trill and a Terran – or a Bajoran and a changeling and a Cardassian, for that matter, she thought bitterly, then snapped herself out of it. Thinking like that would get her nowhere.

A Bajoran and a Ferengi, though, that was something else. Who'd have thought? Leeta and Rom, the least likely, most mismatched, oddest-looking and happiest couple she knew. The astonished joy on Rom's ugly face as Leeta rushed up the transport gangway and practically knocked him over in her squeaking, tearful embrace made Kira grin, until she saw Odo's painful attempt at a smile and had to suppress a wince. Rom said over and over again that he blamed no one, it could have happened to anybody, he was simply glad to be alive and out the other side of it with no lasting harm done – but she knew Odo blamed himself and always would. Rightfully so, said the unfair, judgemental part of her. Had he not let them down, things could have been very different. But then again, if he hadn't let them down they might have all ended up dead anyway. Who could say? She didn't even understand what had happened, let alone what hadn't. Still, watching someone else return from jail was slightly near the knuckle in a half-funny, half-upsetting kind of way, and she was glad when Rom, along with Leeta, Nog, Quark and several others who'd showed up to welcome him back, disappeared off in the direction of the Promenade. She turned to Odo, who was staring at the Bajor-bound passengers boarding the transport with a distracted kind of fascination.

'Thinking of joining them?' she asked him as the blast doors rolled shut and the transport fired up.

'Hmm? Oh. No, not really. What would I do on Bajor, anyway? It's not my home.'

Implicit: I have no home. His shoulders were sagging, his face turned away. She shrugged and began to walk down the corridor; he fell into step beside her, but the silence they kept was not a companionable one. Several times she noticed him open his mouth to say something, then shut it again. Her thoughts whirled and jostled in her head sickeningly, always returning to the same place: Dukat at the top of the ramp onto the prison shuttle, the guards gripping his arms. Turned back to look at her half-faced, the twist of his neck framed dark against the yellow light.

_Take care... Iliana._

'What does it mean? Why did he call me that?' she exclaimed, her self-imposed silence broken all in a rash instant. She'd promised herself not to talk to anyone about it, but it was too difficult. She needed answers, otherwise she'd go mad.

'I assume you mean "Iliana," yes?' Odo asked bitterly. 'How would I know, Nerys? And what business is it of mine?'

'Look, I'm sorry! This isn't what I'd have chosen either!' she snapped, suddenly furious with him and herself and the whole stupid situation. 'But it's happened, that's the long and the short of it, so we've both got to deal with it, OK?'

'You did choose it, though,' he pointed out. 'The only option I got was one that forbids me from ever reconciling with my people, and what did I get for it? Nothing.'

She stared at him. What did he want? The man who stood for nothing but truth, wanting her to lie to him about how she felt, wanting him to say she loved him back even if it wasn't true? That wasn't like him. And it wasn't possible; she'd only lied to him once, and that was more than enough.

_'_The man who made your life hell for all those years. _Why_, Nerys? Why did it have to be him?' he said hopelessly. She shook her head.

'If I knew that, we wouldn't be having this conversation,' she snapped. 'I don't know why, Odo, and it's not like it makes me that happy either, but it's not going to go away. And if you feel like this about it, why in the Prophets' name did you drag me down to that room when you knew what was going to happen?'

Odo muttered something unintelligible; she didn't need to hear what it was, the tone was more than enough to ignite her already bubbling temper.

'Fine! If that's the way you're going to be, I'd rather ask _Quark_ for advice!' she shouted, her boot heels stabbing the floor as she strode away, not caring that he called after her. The hell with him. The hell with everyone. Especially Iliana Ghemor, whoever _she_ was.


	2. Bed Of Nails

**A/N: **Oh dear, it seems my line-breaks are still not working properly, sorry about that. Anyone got any suggestions as to how to make them stay put – special characters, HTML code, other fixes?

**A/N Supplemental: **Orit Ellan, I use single quotes instead of double because I was always taught that double quotes is only for direct quotations or reported speech. And it's easier to type single quotes. (Lazy? Moi?)

**2: ON A BED OF NAILS SHE MAKES ME WAIT**

_My hands are tied, my body bruised_

_You've got me with nothing to win and nothing left to lose_

– _U2_

Dukat stared at the wall. How long had he been here? A month? A year? Or maybe he'd never known anything else, maybe all his memories and experiences were nothing but a dream and his entire life had been spent in this little white room where everything was freezing cold, where his joints were stiff and sore, where what they called interrogations was simply two big men hauling him down the corridor to another room, shouting abuse at him until his ears rang, then roughing him up a bit and throwing him back in here, every few days the exact same thing. It was as if they didn't even want the information, they just wanted to hurt him. Well, he could put up with that. He'd experienced worse. It wasn't frightening, it wasn't humiliating, it was simply painful and repetitive and entirely pointless for everyone involved. They'd tried submitting him to a mind-meld once, very early on, and he'd been hard pushed not to snigger at the poor Vulcan's increasingly desperate attempts to break his mental conditioning, which he had long ago worked out how to turn on and off at will. No, the interrogations were laughable; the cold, however, was very far from funny

He dragged the meagre, scratchy duvet off the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, hiding his numb hands under the corners of the fabric. He'd been resisting this all day because it meant he had nothing warmer to sleep under, but it was too hard; if he didn't get warm now, he'd never be able to move again. And it was heaven for all of five minutes, to have another layer over the thin prison overall that was too short in the sleeves and too tight in the neck, until he got used to it and started feeling the chill again. It got into his bones and sapped his strength, and after a while he could barely muster the energy to move, no matter how uncomfortable he got. His knees ached from sitting curled up for so long, but it was the only way to conserve any heat. He looked glumly at his hands. His scales were starting to fall out, although his next shedding phase wasn't due for at least another six months. Must be the food; that cold, greasy stew full of starch and salt would make even a Klingon sick, and they ate practically anything. He was sure they put something in the water too, because it barely quenched his thirst and left a horrible metallic tang at the back of his mouth. Nerys, I hope you appreciate what I'm going through, he thought gloomily, though you probably think I deserve it. I wouldn't have done this for anyone else.

The forcefield around his cell suddenly zapped off and the big red-haired guard he recognised from the interrogations strode in.

'On your feet, prisoner! You've got a visitor!' the man shouted. Dukat wondered who it was as he began the laborious process of standing up. They'd taken his boots when he'd first arrived and the metal floor was freezing on his bare feet; he had to resist the urge to hop about, because he'd probably fall over. Another man came into the cell. Not overly tall and compactly built, with brownish hair brushed back over a severe face with protruding cheekbones and a broad chin. He was not dressed in Starfleet uniform, just a black shiny jumpsuit with no markings whatsoever. He had 'Intel' written all over him in what he evidently thought was invisible ink, but any Cardassian could read it loud and clear. Now, Dukat thought, this is something. At best, he'd be able to strike some kind of deal and get out of this over-bright little icebox – and at worst it would mean a proper interrogation, which, while unpleasant, was probably less dull than sitting here doing nothing.

'Thank you, Willetts, you may leave us now,' the intelligence man said. Dukat grinned nastily. So that was the big guy's name. He'd remember that and use it against him somehow. Not sure how, but he'd think of a way. It would kill some time, at least. Once Willetts had gone, the intelligence man walked over quite calmly and sat down on Dukat's bunk, eyeing him steadily. Dukat knew he must look a sight: covered in bruises, hair unslicked and hanging in a matted cloud around his face, early stage shedding, bare feet; and indeed the man did cast a curious, slightly amused eye over the duvet that he still wore like a cloak. He stared back impassively. He knew the forcefield was open, but he didn't try to escape. He probably wouldn't get past the end of the corridor and he doubted he could even run that far, not when he felt this bad. No, he'd see what the man wanted, and if there was any way he could get something out of it. Why bother fighting when you could trick your way out?

'Skrain, I am Director Sloan,' the man said. Dukat didn't appreciate the use of his first name by a stranger, but he let it pass. Terrans were weird about first names. Still, he'd revealed a rank, or lack thereof, which was probably deliberate. Definitely secret service, though something a little more serious than those bungling idiots who called themselves 'Starfleet Intelligence.' A black ops division, perhaps. Dukat sneered at the idea of the squeaky-clean Federation having something even remotely resembling black ops. What did they do, break into villainous aliens' secret hideouts and distribute pamphlets about democracy? Sabotage all the enemy supply lines to only dispense root beer? Develop biogenic weapons which infected people with a lofty, sanctimonious attitude and an insatiable need to beat you over the head with the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

'I see you've already developed a relationship with our information retrieval team,' Sloan remarked, gesturing to Dukat's face, which Dukat himself hadn't seen in a while but he assumed it was not in good shape; it certainly hurt in a fair few places. He nodded, wondering if his voice still worked after almost a month of complete silence. He hadn't given Willetts and co the satisfaction of hearing him make a sound, not once. And he never would.

'Someone really should have a word with them about how to conduct a proper interrogation,' he managed to say, though he sounded gritty and hoarse and his throat hurt like hell. 'At this rate I'm likely to die of boredom before you people get anything out of me.'

'Hah! Yes, well, you'd know all about interrogation, wouldn't you?' Sloan laughed, not unkindly. 'Perhaps you could give them some tips next time.'

Dukat shrugged stiffly, hauling the duvet a little tighter around himself. He knew Sloan wasn't simply here for idle chit-chat, but it had been a long time since anyone had actually talked _to_ him rather than shouting at him, so he was willing to let it continue.

'But then again,' Sloan continued, 'that all depends on whether you still have use of your mouth.'

'Aha! A threat! Now _that's_ more like it,' Dukat said teasingly, watching Sloan's face to see if he got a rise out of him. No, not a flicker. Try again, prod away until something happened. It could be risky, but angry interrogators often got careless enough to reveal too much information. He'd take whatever he could get; any advantage was better than none, even if it involved another beating.

'Still, it wasn't that frightening, was it?' Poke, prod, tweak. 'Got any nastier ones?'

In a surprising and quite painful instant, he suddenly found himself pressed flat against the wall with one strong hand on his throat, fingers digging in hard. He didn't struggle. This was obviously some kind of test, and he was determined to let it run its full course. Sloan's hand was very warm against his cold skin. It would have been almost nice, if it wasn't so hard to breathe. He met the human's eyes and he was impressed. It was relatively hard to kill a Cardassian by strangulation, at least when compared to a fragile, flimsy species like Terrans or Bajorans, but Sloan could probably do it. He wouldn't think twice about it, either; his face was a study in absolute neutrality. A little bored, even. Maybe that earlier surmise about root beer wasn't quite doing the man justice. No, Dukat had apparently just discovered Starfleet's dirty little secret – a proper intelligence service with talented, ruthless agents who'd really kill and really torture to achieve their ends. And nobody in the quadrant knew about it – not even the Romulans, who knew almost everything there was to know about the Federation and made a good deal of profit selling it onto various other cultures. Even the Obsidian Order were never this good at staying hidden. The outrageous, fantastic irony of this nearly made him burst out laughing, but he kept a lid on it, since Sloan's hand was now pressing agonisingly tight against his neck.

'I'm sure I can think of a few,' Sloan said. 'But if you co-operate with me, I won't need to use them.'

He pulled his hand away from Dukat's throat, staring in surprise at the thin coating of loose scales that came off on his palm. Dukat smiled at his disgusted expression.

'Ah, I'm shedding early,' he croaked, feeling his squashed windpipe begin to reshape itself; he swallowed hard to get rid of the constriction. 'It's the food, you see. It doesn't agree with me.'

'Any other complaints?' Sloan asked dryly, wiping the flat of his hand across Dukat's quilt-draped shoulder to get rid of the scales.

'I'd quite like my shoes back, the floor's a little cold,' Dukat answered, matching Sloan's sardonic tone and seeing a faint smirk drift across the man's face. 'However, we both know that's not why you're here, so let's get to the point. You've got something I want, and I've got something you want. Coming to an arrangement should be easy enough, I think.'

Sloan chuckled, looking at Dukat with narrowed eyes.

'Very direct, for a Cardassian,' he commented. 'Get that from Major Kira, did you?'

Dukat's insides tensed at Sloan's casual mention of Nerys. He'd avoided thinking about her too much because he knew it would make him miserable, but having her name thrown in his face like an insult made his hackles rise. He didn't bother wondering how Sloan knew about him and her; enquiring too deeply into a secret agent's modus operandi often left you wishing you'd never asked. He forced himself to stay calm.

'No, I just assumed that you're not the type to allow unnecessary and ridiculous "morals" to prevent you getting what you want,' he answered shortly. 'You let me out of this cell and I'll give you the information, simple as that. But I'm saying nothing until I'm on the other side of that forcefield.'

'Oh no,' Sloan said lightly, shaking his head and smiling. 'It's not as simple as that, Skrain. You see, I'm not foolish enough to let you loose on this galaxy again until I've squeezed every last bit of information out of that scheming Cardassian mind of yours one way or another. Once I've done that, maybe I'll think about letting you go... or maybe I won't. It depends how much help you are.'

So, here it was. The challenge. The statement of adversity, the battle of wills. A serious opponent, too, not just another ham-fisted idiot who passed for an interrogator by Starfleet's lax definition. Sloan was a dangerous man and he was the one in control at the moment, but Dukat had been interrogated by much worse. They'd just have to see who cracked first. He folded his arms.

'Good luck with that, _Director_ Sloan,' he sneered. Sloan chuckled softly as he got up and walked to the edge of the cell, then closed the forcefield again behind him. He stared back through the electrical mesh at Dukat for a moment.

'Goodbye, Skrain. Think about what I've said, won't you? You may find you want to discuss it again sometime. I'll be around.'

Dukat gritted his teeth as the sound of Sloan's footsteps died away. That meant trouble.

Yes, it meant trouble. His cell got even colder, so cold that it hurt to move at all. His scales started falling out in great clumps, leaving raw painful patches all over his skin. What little food he forced himself to eat was now so vile he couldn't keep it down, and if he thought the water was suspect before, now he knew it was: his head ached constantly, he had double vision and he was plagued by mad, feverish nightmares whenever he finally managed to sleep, lying in a shivering little ball with the duvet pulled over his face to block out the ever-present bright lights. They stopped trying to interrogate him, but now nothing happened at all. He had no way of knowing whether it was night or day; a bowl of the nauseating stew and a glass of stale, cloudy water appeared in the alcove by the bed every few hours, but beyond that he had no idea. He'd neither seen nor heard another living being since Sloan left, not even Willetts and the other guards. He was alone in the freezing silence with aching bones and a sore head and itchy, disintegrating skin, simply letting his mind wander over random thoughts: words, weather, food, the colours of his children's eyes, dates of battles he'd learned about at school. Naprem's favourite red dress. Names and faces of people he'd killed, there were lots of those. Registration numbers of ships. The quickest way to strip down and overhaul a phaser rifle using only a field kit. Silly, pointless thoughts. He didn't let himself think about important things, because that was the way to insanity.

And he certainly didn't let himself think about Nerys. Not even in his dreams.

He discovered that the corner between the bed and the forcefield perimeter was slightly warmer than the rest of the room, presumably due to the current, so he sat there often, shrouded in the now filthy duvet like a bug in a cocoon, feeling dizzy and light-headed from cold and hunger and whatever drugs they'd been putting in the water. He wouldn't give in, not until Sloan was forced to acknowledge that an exchange went both ways. Starfleet needed the information he had, but he wouldn't give unless he got something back. He could last as long as he had to. Besides, he thought with the grim satisfaction of those who know they've hit rock bottom, if I die in here they'll never get it out of me, and then they'll be really stuck.


	3. Dead Stars Still Burn

**A/N: **Happy Halloween/Samhain/All Souls Eve/Dia de los Muertos, everyone.

**3: DEAD STARS STILL BURN**

_I'm in your hold, eager to abuse _

_My favourite game_

_I've suffered from misuse_

– _Covenant_

One day when Dukat had stopped thinking at all, apart from vague dreams of warmth and food and thick, blessed darkness like a bandage across his eyes, Sloan returned.

'I expect a good many admirals would pay quite a lot to see you like this. The fearsome Gul Dukat, scourge of the Alpha Quadrant, cowering in the corner of a prison cell under a dirty old quilt,' he said as he stood over Dukat, who was wedged in his little space by the edge of the forcefield, legs cramped, shoulders stiff, unwashed and frozen and sore all over. He cracked his heavy eyelids open and squinted up at Sloan, who this time wore normal red Starfleet uniform. Dukat couldn't make out the rank, and Starfleet had too many damn ranks anyway. He summoned up a tired glare.

'Haven't won the war yet, then?' he rasped. His throat was like sandpaper. 'Still need my help?'

'You're in no fit state to help anyone,' Sloan told him brusquely, dragging his knuckles the wrong way over a particularly raw patch of skin on Dukat's cheekbone. The stinging pain snapped him fully awake and he hissed in annoyance. Sloan laughed.

'Just wondered if you'd thought any more about what I said. I don't need you, Skrain, I can find the information I need from other places. But you need me. You'll never get out of here without me.'

'Another threat?' Dukat scoffed through violently chattering teeth. 'Bah, you don't scare me!'

'So proud,' Sloan said softly, beginning to pace around the cell. His shiny shoes made an irritating clacking sound on the floor. 'Cardassians always were such proud people. And you more than most, Skrain. I've read your file. You're an interesting man.'

'And you're not,' Dukat retorted. 'Flattery will get you nowhere, I'm not stupid.'

'Tell me why you saved Kira Nerys's life six weeks ago,' Sloan said, stopping his annoying pacing and crouching down beside Dukat, looking close into his face. Dukat shrugged painfully under his duvet. Six weeks, was that all? It seemed like a lifetime away from this miserable hole.

'Isn't it obvious? I thought secret agents were supposed to know things like this.'

'I do know. I just want to hear you say it.'

'I didn't want her to die,' Dukat answered tonelessly. Sloan raised his eyebrows.

'So you saved her life, even though you could have died yourself. You threw everything away. Not very Cardassian, is it? She must mean a great deal to you.'

'Sloan, if you're so sure you can get the information from other sources – which I doubt – then why are you still here asking stupid questions? You're not very good at this game, are you?'

'Such arrogance!' Sloan laughed. 'That's because I haven't started playing yet.'

'Well, _do_ let me know when you're ready,' Dukat sneered. Sloan grinned like a shark.

'Oh, I will. And you're right, of course, there are still things I can only find out from you. But I'm prepared to be patient. It just depends on how long your people can last, doesn't it? I've been hearing some very disturbing reports from Cardassia Prime recently.'

One-nil to you, Sloan, Dukat thought bitterly. He hadn't allowed himself to think about Cardassia either. His struggling, confused, angry homeland, the hangovers from old wars, all that drive and fury and ambition that he'd stymied by his gamble with the Dominion. That fury that had no outlet, so it turned inwards on itself instead. All those choices he'd had to make which would only ever end badly. And the one choice he'd made willingly, which got him everything for one night and lost him everything for the rest of his life.

'I'm sure you have. You Starfleet types always do.'

'Don't you want to do something about it?'

'You mean like telling you everything I know so you can destroy my people that much faster? Go to hell,' Dukat snarled, standing up much too fast for someone who'd barely eaten in weeks. The room turned over, his knees buckled and he felt the back of his head hit the floor with a jarring crack. His eyes watered in agony and he gritted his teeth on a curse as Sloan knelt down beside him.

'You know, I'm impressed,' Sloan said, looking at him with curious eyes. 'They weren't wrong when they said you were as stubborn as a Bajoran. But what are you fighting _for, _Skrain?'

Dukat grinned, in spite of the pain in his skull and the bewildering dizziness. He was secretly quite pleased that Sloan was adopting a more psychological approach, rather than the typical hitting-and-shouting stuff that humans did so unconvincingly; the former at least showed some knowledge of how interrogations were meant to work. Once they started trying to manipulate him, then he had a chance of manipulating right back – and no one was better at mind games than the Cardassians. Alright, Sloan, he thought gleefully, bring it on if you think you're clever enough.

'You tell me. If you've read my file, it should be obvious. What does every Cardassian say they're fighting for, and does it really matter? What matters is that I'm fighting, and I shall continue to do so until I have a reason to stop,' he answered. Sloan nodded, seeming to approve.

'You may find that reason arrives sooner than you think.'

'If I co-operate with you, for example?'

'Something like that.'

Dukat pushed himself laboriously back up to sitting, and looked coolly at Sloan.

'You know, there's no way that you'll win the war even with what I tell you. The Dominion are dug in so deep into our territory, it'll take a miracle to get them out of there. You're wasting your time.'

'A miracle?' Sloan said mock-thoughtfully. 'Oh no, I don't think so. Miracles are nothing more than careful planning – the right person in the right place at the right time. You don't believe in miracles, either, do you? That's because you already know who the right person is, and all she has to do is be in the right place at the right time.'

'Sloan, I haven't the faintest idea what you're going on about,' Dukat snapped. Actually, he had a very good idea who it was, and he was dismayed that Sloan knew too. Perhaps... yes, perhaps he could turn this to his advantage. He knew that Sloan knew that he knew, and neither of them were saying. The game was not what you knew. It was what you did with it. 'Who is this person?'

Sloan opened his hands as if the answer could be found in there, and smiled.

'Iliana Ghemor, of course.'

Aha. The seed is planted, the hint taken. The bluff called. This question-and-answer routine would prove to be a very interesting game indeed. Dukat looked at him, feigning confusion.

'Some mistake, surely? Iliana Ghemor went missing years ago; she's probably dead by now, and even if she's still alive she won't be any help. I'd check your sources again, if I were you.'

Sloan laughed, steepling his fingers under his chin for a moment.

'The woman who bore her name is probably dead, yes, but the name is not dead. In fact, Iliana Ghemor has become a sort of folk tale: the spy who came in from the cold after all those years, the woman with two faces, or no face at all. She's a symbol. An idea. A myth. And you, Skrain, believe in that myth. I know you do, because you said so.'

The myth that could teach his people what they didn't realise they already knew – how to rebel. The secret everyone had heard and no one admitted to, because it wasn't what you knew, it was what you did with it that mattered. Well, Iliana Ghemor, or more importantly the _idea_ of her, was something new to do with what you knew, and his people were like a fuse awaiting a spark. Once they had that spark, the Cardassians would rise, and this time it would be different. This time they'd rise against not just the military, but the whole State, that strange, huge, forbidding entity which was meant to represent every Cardassian's deepest-held dreams but somehow ended up representing nothing but nightmares. The thing every Cardassian secretly hated, yet proudly defended to the death every time its continued existence was threatened. Even with the Dominion as the State, they fought and bled for it without a second thought, because it was what they had always done. Nobody ever asked why, and the few that did vanished instantly, because it wasn't what you knew, but what you did with it.

But a famous dissident's lost daughter who came back from the grave with Bajoran eyes in a Cardassian face, who _would_ ask why, and in public too – now that was the stuff of legend, or it would be if his people were free to believe in legends. Iliana Ghemor was the push his people needed to get out of the Dominion-shaped grave he'd been forced to dig for them. Strange that a Federation spy should know all this, but who could ever tell what spies knew? Nerys would be furious with him for treating Iliana's father the way he did, then dumping something like this on her, but he and Tekeny Ghemor had been rivals for years and they both knew all too well how it worked. Personal wasn't the same as important, except when it was. Besides, Nerys was _always_ furious with him about one thing or another. Dukat looked right into Sloan's eyes. Blue met blue. He saw surprise, and smiled.

'Yes, Sloan, I believe in that myth.'


	4. Making A Meal Of Me Now

**A/N: **The more I write of this thing, the less I know where the hell it's going. Next chapter could take a little while... please be patient with me, I know I should have given myself more of a head start before I began posting, I _know_. But I just couldn't wait.

**4:** **MAKING A MEAL OF ME NOW**

_This lot, this lot have messed you around_

_Open, open your arms_

– _Editors_

On the morning after the latest raiding party, when everyone was exhausted and grimy and desperate for some sleep after spending the night fighting off Jem'Hadar destroyers hell-bent on taking down the minefield, Sisko called Kira into his office. It had been a bad night, at the end of a bad week; eight people were dead, dozens more injured, and the station itself had taken a serious beating, despite O'Brien's last minute modifications to the shields and a risky bit of jerry-rigging which allowed them to launch torpedoes, though without any guidance systems, automatic lock or failsafes. The captain's normally affable face looked tired and lined, his shoulders slumped as he sat at his desk. Kira stood rather stiffly on the other side, all too aware that she hadn't yet had time for a shower or breakfast, and wondered what it was about. She had a sudden panic attack – perhaps, as a result of their argument and subsequent stony silence, Odo had told Sisko about what happened with Dukat? As Sisko looked up at her, she had to fight the urge to run away.

'Everything alright, sir?' she asked, mentally steeling herself for a highly unpleasant confrontation. Sisko sighed and shook his head, waving her to a chair.

'This can't carry on, Major,' he said heavily. 'We're at a complete stalemate with the Dominion, and what the Cardassians are doing is anyone's guess. All along the border, it's the exact same story; skirmish after skirmish, day after day, with nothing to show for it but a few hundred kilometres gained or lost and a whole lot of people dead. Something has to change. We've got to tip the balance in our favour somehow, or this will simply go on forever.'

'I agree,' Kira answered, relief flooding through her, instantly softening her tensed muscles. Not about Dukat, then. 'But what can we do, apart from dig in and hold out? I'm guessing Starfleet isn't going to launch another offensive any time soon, and Bajor's still neutral.'

'You're not going to like this, Major, but in my opinion it's the Cardassians who are the key in all of this. Starfleet Command also share my view.'

'Sir, what's this all about?' Kira asked uneasily, the tension returning. Sisko shrugged.

'It's difficult to explain.' He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, deep in thought for a minute. 'Last night before the attacks I had a rather strange communiqué from Admiral Nechayev, on behalf of a man called Sloan who claims to be from Starfleet Intelligence.'

'What d'you mean, _claims to be_?' Kira asked suspiciously, her long-held distrust of Starfleet, intelligence services, bureaucracy, admirals and authority in general coming to the surface in a bitter rush.

'I mean, there's no proof,' Sisko answered. 'I ran a search for him in the Starfleet personnel database, and there's hardly any biographical information on him at all, even in the classified section. His official role is described as "Deputy Director of Internal Affairs," whatever that's supposed to mean, and beyond that there's almost nothing else. I mean, he's probably who he says he is if Nechayev knows about him, but you can never be too careful these days.'

'And he's talking to you because...?' Kira prompted him, still not knowing what the point of all this was. Sisko looked closely at her.

'He requested you for a special assignment on Cardassia, Major.'

'On _Cardassia_?' Kira repeated, stunned and increasingly wary. 'What kind of mission?'

Perhaps Dukat, during the interrogations he was probably being subjected to – thinking of that gave her a strange hot-cold feeling in her stomach – had confessed everything, and now Starfleet Command were going to punish her somehow. The hell with that, the cynical, angry side of her said. You're not one of theirs, they can't do shit to you.

She still didn't like the idea of them knowing.

'I have no idea,' Sisko said, 'the message doesn't go into much detail. Here, maybe it's simpler if you just hear it yourself.'

Sisko activated his computer and typed in a few commands, then swivelled the monitor around so Kira could see it. Admiral Nechayev appeared on the screen.

'Hello, Benjamin,' she said, somehow managing to sound bored, disdainful and smug all at once. Kira had only met her once, and hated her guts. 'I know you're probably very busy out there, so I'll keep this brief. I've had a request from Director Sloan of Starfleet Intelligence – he wants to assign a member of your staff, Major Kira Nerys, to a special mission on Cardassia Prime which will be vital to the war effort, and about which I am not at liberty to say any more over subspace. Once you acknowledge receipt of this message, a transport will be sent to Deep Space Nine at top speed to bring Major Kira to Starbase 27. A replacement officer will also be assigned to her position to cover for as long as is necessary. The Bajoran government have been made aware of the situation and have given their consent for Major Kira to be absent from her post. Personnel files for the replacement officer, transfer logs and all other relevant documents have been sent to you via an encrypted link attached to this message.'

'What!' Kira exploded, over Nechayev's perfunctory best wishes and sign-off. 'They can't do that! And what the hell are the Provisional Government playing at? Since when is it OK for your people to give them orders?'

'I haven't replied yet, Major,' Sisko said with a wry smile. 'Don't panic, I'm not about to pack you off to Starbase 27 on some wild goose chase without a damn good reason why. The high-ups seem to have forgotten that DS9 requires a first officer with proper experience, not just some Academy ace who's spent all their life on ships a long way from any enemy borders. That's no good to me now.'

Sisko's frank praise made her blush with pleasure, even through the heat of her anger, and she felt her cheeks turn brilliantly pink. She couldn't quite meet his eyes.

'It means a lot to hear you say that, sir. But it sounds like they've already decided I'm doing this mission, whatever it is, if they've sorted out a new officer and everything. Doesn't exactly leave me much choice, does it?'

She suddenly realised something she should have picked up on much earlier, and stopped short. Dukat and Starfleet Intelligence... a special mission on Cardassia...

_Take care, Iliana._

Prophets, this was _his_ idea all along. Damn him!

'The bastard,' she spat, ignoring Sisko's astonishment. 'He gives himself up after putting everybody through all that hell, then expects me to do his dirty work again! And he knows I can't refuse, because this time the entire damn quadrant's relying on me! _Bastard!_'

'Major, would you mind explaining just what it is that's got you so mad?' Sisko exclaimed. She clamped her lips shut on several more choice insults, and took a deep breath.

'You remember Iliana Ghemor?'

'I remember when the Cardassians abducted you and tried to make you believe you were her,' Sisko said darkly, and she deeply appreciated the anger that passed across his face.

'Yeah. Not the best week of my life. Well, I've just put two and two together and come up with about six hundred. You said it yourself just now: the Cardassians are the key in this whole mess. And the Cardassian who _made_ this whole mess is now in the custody of Starfleet Intelligence. You heard what he said to me as they took him away, right?'

'I didn't understand it,' Sisko admitted. 'I thought he was trying to be funny or something.'

'If only. No, that was his own special way,' Kira rolled her eyes, 'of telling me that this covert ops mission involves me becoming Iliana Ghemor again. I'm going to have to infiltrate Cardassia Prime and... I don't know, start a revolution or something, turn them against the Dominion somehow.'

It sounded strange, saying it so baldly and plainly like that. Even the thought of it was ludicrous; infiltrating the heartland of the most secretive, paranoid and above all _observant_ race in the quadrant, in order to persuade an entire society of brainwashed, blinkered totalitarians to rebel against their beloved State. Just her against a thousand years of institutionalised hate and repression and lies, drummed into every one of them from the cradle to the grave. _Take care, Iliana,_ indeed.

'So Dukat's managed to make some kind of deal with Intelligence, and now they're both throwing you to the wolves?'

'Uh-huh. I'm Bajoran, that's what I'm here for,' she snapped. 'Cardassians do the planning, we get sent to our deaths. Revolution, my ass – this is the way it's always been!'

'He really was serious,' Sisko said quietly. 'He really did want to turn on the Dominion, and it all went horribly wrong. What a nightmare,' he sighed. 'It's bad enough when you know who your enemies are, but now we've got the Cardassians playing double games all over the place and the damn Romulans lurking in the background as well... You know, Major, this mission might be our only chance, because we're sure as hell not having much luck any other way!'

Kira sat back in her chair, disgusted. Dukat had trapped her, yet again, and this time he'd got Starfleet Intelligence to help him do it. He'd stitched her up to get his own ass out of jail, if that indeed was what the other end of the deal involved, and he knew she couldn't back out. Well, she could, but if the Dominion won the war as a result then she'd have to live with it, and he knew she couldn't do that. She had to accept it as yet more evidence that the Prophets had it in for her, tangling her up with the Cardassians yet again. She'd never be free of them; she'd have to do this, because it was the lesser of two evils, at least as far as the quadrant at large was concerned. Still, somehow it was worse when she knew she couldn't shout and rant at Dukat, see him laugh at her anger and almost want to laugh herself in spite of everything, with that special kind of unbalance that only he could make her feel. Then he'd stop laughing and she'd realise that he was actually desperate, realise that it wasn't a joke. She wondered if he missed her. She wondered what they'd done to him, whether she'd see him if she went to Starbase 27 to meet this Director Sloan character. She wondered if she even wanted to see him.

'Alright,' she sighed. 'So I have to disguise myself as a Cardassian who's supposed to be dead, find a way onto what is probably the most heavily-guarded planet in the quadrant, and start a revolution amongst people whose only response to rebels is killing them – all without getting caught? Have they _any_ idea what they're asking?'

'You don't have to do it, Major,' Sisko told her gently. 'This isn't even your fight. I can tell Admiral Nechayev to find another way, or ask someone else – '

'No, sir,' she said. 'This became my fight six weeks ago. I'll do it.'

Because there really, really wasn't another way, and there was no one else they could ask. Dukat had known all along how this would end; he tried to make her see, and she didn't – or she wouldn't. He'd relish the irony of a Bajoran resistance fighter leading a Cardassian revolution. She wouldn't have done, because the very suggestion would have made her furious if he'd put it to her freely. But now they were all twisting each other's arms, and his absence somehow lessened her fury because it was mixed up with so many other things. He was desperate. Starfleet were desperate. The Cardassians were probably desperate, if they even knew the meaning of the word. Everyone was desperate. And sometimes the craziest, most horribly ironic idea was actually the perfect solution.

At least, it would have been perfect if it wasn't her who had to do it.

'You're really sure about this? It's not going to be easy, Major. I'd hate to lose you.'

Sisko's dark, steady eyes were anxious on her face. She felt a bewildering mixture of pride, anger, reassurance and dread, but she slammed it hard down inside and nodded coolly. There was no way to get out of this, so she might as well be professional about it.

'Tell Nechayev I'll start packing.'

Nechayev didn't lie when she said top speed; the transport was due to arrive at 0800 the next morning, having travelled at maximum warp all through the night. Kira was pacing the corridors restlessly, having spent an unpleasant, emotional couple of hours saying goodbye to everyone. It was bad enough having to leave all the command crew when they'd only been back together for such a short time, but knowing that they were all relying on her – that the whole bloody quadrant was relying on her, in fact – somehow made it much worse. Still, none of it was as bad as saying goodbye to Ziyal, who'd already heard the news when Kira sought her out, just before she was due to leave; the girl had been so disappointed so often, and here was just one more kick in the teeth for her. She understood, of course; Dukat's daughter would never be any less than fully aware of the unfortunate predicament Cardassia was in. But that didn't make it any easier.

'If you see my father, tell him I miss him,' Ziyal had said, then blinked back tears as Kira hugged her goodbye outside her quarters.

'I will, Ziyal, I promise. I've got to leave now, but I'll be back before you know it.'

Ziyal refrained from saying anything to the contrary, although they both knew it was a barefaced lie. She just stood very straight with Dukat's blue eyes glassy in her sweet, mixed-up face; Kira bit her lip and walked away. If nothing else, she'd come back for Ziyal, because the girl deserved much more than being abandoned by the people she loved and needed. She slowly made her way down to the docking ring again, feeling like she'd been put through a wringer, only to come face to face with Odo. Her insides tensed uncomfortably at the sight of him.

'I came to say goodbye,' he announced, rather unnecessarily, then quickly looked down at the floor. She stood frozen for a second, then shook her head, sighing. No more of this.

'Odo, I'm sorry about what's happened between us. Let's not fight any more.'

'I agree. I just have to accept... how things have turned out.'

She said nothing. Somehow, there was nothing she could say, and she wondered if they'd ever get back to the way they were before – the easy, solid friendship she'd valued and relied on so much. But that was before she knew about his feelings for her; ever since then, the knowledge had oppressed her, making it nearly impossible to feel comfortable around him. Probably the time apart would be good for both of them, and once she came back they'd be able to start over, without all these old spectres and disappointments hanging around.

Assuming she came back at all, that is.

'Well, good luck then,' he muttered gruffly. 'Not that I believe in luck, of course. And I don't believe in your Prophets either, but I'll ask them to look out for you just the same.'

The remark was so quintessentially Odo – the old, grumpy, irascible Odo who didn't have time for feelings and stood for nothing but the truth, the Odo who was the brother she couldn't remember having – that she nearly laughed out loud.

'I'll be sure to give your love to Weyoun if I run into him,' she joked, and the amused quirk of his mouth was a joy to behold. They'd be fine, in the end. Just fine.

'Ah, Major, I'm glad I managed to catch you before you left,' Sisko boomed, hurrying up to her and Odo. He was followed, oddly enough, by Garak, who wore a large backpack and his usual bland smile.

'What's _he _doing here?' Kira asked suspiciously, indicating the tailor.

'There's been a slight change of plan,' Sisko explained. 'I didn't like the idea of you going on your own, so I spoke to Starfleet Command and asked them to allow you a partner, someone who has some experience with this sort of thing. And who better than Mr Garak?'

'Oh, Captain, you flatter me far too much,' Garak demurred. 'I'm delighted you think I can help, but I'm really only a simple tailor...'

Kira couldn't even find it in her to be surprised; she just rolled her eyes at Odo, who snorted softly under his breath. She'd never been that keen on Garak, who was tricksy and unreliable even by Cardassian standards, and the idea of spending an extended time alone with him on Cardassia, a territory he knew well and she didn't, was not a pleasant one. Still, she should have expected it. Not only was she being sent on some damn fool mission which was bound to fail horribly, but she also had to put up with Garak's snide remarks and innuendo. The only silver lining to this grey, scaly cloud was that he probably did know a lot more about spying than she did. She sure as hell wasn't going to rely on him, but she could at least use him somehow.

'Fine. Whatever,' she snapped. 'But I'm warning you, Simple Tailor Garak, I'm not putting up with any funny business, is that clear?'

'Absolutely, Major,' Garak answered crisply. And then the transport was there, and there was no time for anything except a brief, hard clap on the shoulder from Sisko and another awkward silence between her and Odo, where they both stood there like complete idiots for a few seconds before she thought 'oh, the hell with it' and flung her arms around him, feeling his gelid surface ripple with surprise. His hand tentatively came up and patted her back once or twice, as if he was afraid of hurting her. Then he let go, and the expression on his face was a slightly dazed little smile. She shook her head and got on the transport, Garak following her. She saw Odo watching through the plexiglas on the blast door, still looking shell-shocked. He got smaller and smaller as the transport un-docked, and then he was lost from view. Kira sighed and turned away from the window.

'You know, he'd be a much better choice than Dukat,' Garak remarked, stowing his pack in the corner and sitting down with a sigh. Kira spun round furiously to face him, glaring.

'Alright, Garak, let's get one thing straight,' she snarled. 'I didn't even want you here at all, so I sure as dammit don't want any stupid comments! Unless you've got something to say that relates directly to the mission, you keep your mouth shut or you'll be meeting a sticky end, is that clear?'

'But of course, Major,' Garak answered smoothly, not at all surprised by her outburst. He grinned. 'And may I say, if you keep your tongue that sharp then no Cardassian will be able to resist you, much less see through your disguise. Now, it so happens that I've got a rather interesting suggestion for Iliana Ghemor's back-story. Care to hear it?'

She nodded grudgingly and sat down, looking around the shuttle. It was one of the little Starfleet passenger vehicles with a door between the cockpit and the seating area, which was equipped only with a comm panel, a few chairs and a replicator. Obviously they didn't like their passengers knowing where they were going, so there were no maps, sensors or navigational arrays. A couple of lockers at the back presumably contained weapons and a med-kit, but beyond that, there was very little to suggest this was actually a working ship at all. Garak followed her gaze.

'Makes one feel quite useless, doesn't it?' he said softly. 'Starfleet like to do that, I've noticed.'

Startled at his insight, she stared at him a second, then remembered herself.

'Huh. So are you going to tell me this idea or not?'

Garak smiled benignly and began to tell her his plan, which, she reluctantly admitted, was a clever one, appealing to the Cardassians' love of trickery as well as being conveniently hard to check: Iliana Ghemor, believing she was a Bajoran, joined the Maquis after the Occupation ended and got herself arrested by Starfleet. While going through all the tedious prison counselling and rehabilitation stuff, her Vulcan parole officer accidentally broke through the suppression of her Cardassian memories during a routine corrective mind-meld, and her true identity was restored quite by chance. As soon as all her memories returned and she knew fully who she was, Starfleet threw her back in jail, as the war had begun by then. She played the defection card, expressed her shock and outrage at Cardassia's alliance with the Dominion, and promised to spy for the Federation if they restored her to her original appearance and got her back home.

'Of course, you'll technically be a triple agent,' Garak explained airily. 'Back on Prime you'll obviously tell them you tricked Starfleet into thinking you were their agent, and they'll give you lots of false information to pass back. Starfleet in turn will give you lots of false information. Both sides will also give you access to the real stuff, at least in part, which we can then use to incite rebellion. Still with me?' he asked as Kira shook her head in disbelief.

'I'm never going to pull this off in a million years. They'll know as soon as they look at me.'

'Good job I'm here to help, then, hmm?'

'You were planning this anyway, weren't you?' she asked him. 'Spying on the Dominion, I mean.'

'Me, Major? Spying? Absolutely not,' Garak assured her with a twinkle in his eyes. 'I'm just a – '

'Yeah, yeah, simple tailor, I know. Save it, Garak, you'll find I'm much less gullible than Bashir.'

_Aha_, she thought as a tiny crack appeared in Garak's smooth mask at the mention of Bashir. She'd often wondered what was between them – the strange lunch appointments, the knowing glances, the little jokes, and of course there was the time they'd spent together in the Dominion prison camp, from which Bashir had come back twice the man he'd been and Garak by contrast had seemed strangely reduced, burnt away somehow. So there was something there. Perhaps she could exploit it somehow, if only to make sure he kept his mouth shut... She suddenly realised she was thinking like a Cardassian, and had to physically stop herself from feeling dirty and contaminated. She couldn't have the luxury of decent thought-patterns now now. Iliana Ghemor thought like that _all the time._ Use and abuse, manipulate and negotiate. Nothing for free, nothing for its own merits. Everything had an ulterior motive, everything could be bought and sold if the right person paid the right price.

She _hated_ it.

But that was what she was here to change, wasn't it? She was here to teach the Cardassians to listen to the yes. Ironic, really, that it was a Cardassian who first taught her that. She thought about him, because it was time she did. She was still angry with him, and she doubted she'd ever totally stop being angry with him, but the important thing was that it was no longer just anger. It was now mixed up with a lot of other things; surprise, regret, confusion, familiarity, and something as tender and bittersweet as the taste of his skin, which she remembered far too well with a hunger that was beginning to gnaw at her. The night they'd stolen, those few short hours in which she'd finally admitted it all, to herself and to him – it had felt like freedom, made all the more precious and painful because it cost them a whole lot of other freedoms.

Yes. Everything was bought and sold, when the right person paid the right price.

He knew that, he'd always known that. Now, so did she. But that didn't mean she liked it any better. She sighed, turned the other way in her seat and proceeded to ignore Garak for the rest of the trip.


	5. Love My Way

**A/N: **Whew, 2 chapters in as many days – you guys are either very lucky or very unlucky, depending on what you think of this. I'll leave it up to you, though I am interested to hear your thoughts, as always.

**A/N Supplemental: **Posting might get a little irregular from now on, because I've just found another job and the hours are possibly even worse than at the last place. Fare-thee-well, dear Free Time...

**5: LOVE MY WAY**

_In a room without a door, a kiss is not enough_

_[...]_

_So swallow all your tears my love and put on your new face_

_You can never win or lose if you don't run the race_

– _Psychedelic Furs_

Starbase 27 was a huge floating fortress, ten times the size of DS9 and all done out in glaring white like a giant ice-box. It almost made her miss the ugly Cardassian hulk Kira called home; certainly the vast base's cold and brightly lit corridors, smooth featureless walls and rubbery floor that swallowed all footsteps made her feel virtually nonexistent as she and Garak trudged after the young lieutenant who met them off the shuttle and who had apparently been their pilot for the whole trip. Starfleet always made her feel this way; inadequate, angry and as gauche as a thirteen-year-old. All that efficiency, all those bland smiles and perfectly-pressed uniforms – weren't they supposed to be in the middle of a war? If so, it was the neatest, cleanest war she'd ever seen. They looked like they were fresh off the parade ground and hadn't ever experienced any real action, whereas she, although she was a good deal younger than some of the officers she saw, felt like she was a thousand years old, worn out and bitter and dishevelled from far too much real action.

'I'll show you to your quarters,' the lieutenant said to Kira, 'then Admiral Nechayev wishes to meet with you and, uh...' She broke off, looking at Garak uneasily, and Kira had to resist the urge to laugh. Greenhorns.

'Mister will do nicely,' he finished for her, giving her his trademark affable smile. She nodded.

'You'll find the admiral in conference room three. You can ask the computer for directions, or there are floor-plans by each turbolift.'

'I'm sure we'll find it. Thank you.'

A few minutes later she opened a blank white door in a blank white wall and showed Kira into a large and well-appointed set of quarters, before disappearing with Garak. Kira dumped her bag gratefully and sank into a chair. She felt unaccountably exhausted, although the flight here was not overly long and it was only mid-afternoon according to her chronometer, which was still set on Bajoran time. She had a poke around the rooms. They were far bigger than her own quarters back on Deep Space Nine, and these were just the standard-issue accommodation. They were also, like the rest of this place, completely and utterly impersonal and featureless. It gave her a flat, depressed feeling. Sighing, she raked a comb through her hair, straightened her uniform, then set out to find conference room 3 and the disagreeable Admiral Nechayev. Garak was waiting for her at the end of the hall, clad, she noticed, in several extra layers. She returned his greeting with a brusque nod and made for the nearest turbolift, the Cardassian ambling along beside her like he was on holiday. She made no attempt to talk to Garak, nor he to her. She tried not to think about the fact that Dukat was here somewhere, in a cell down one of these long white corridors which were chilly enough by her standards, so it would be freezing for him. He'd look strange, not quite himself, like he did on that last morning with uncombed hair and tired eyes and no armour. She tried not to think about finding his cell and asking him what the hell he was playing at, even though she already knew much too well. And she tried extra hard not to think about finding his cell and closing the door on them both and letting the world forget about the pair of them, just for a little while.

Nechayev was her usual frosty self as Kira and Garak entered the conference room. The blonde admiral greeted them perfectly civilly, but there was a slight hint of disdain which kicked Kira's defensive side into action almost as soon as she came through the door. Something about the woman's eyes, cold and blue, like she was laughing behind her hand at some unkind private joke. There was another man sitting in with them – and if Nechayev was cold, then he was absolute zero. He wore Starfleet uniform, but he didn't look like a typical Starfleet officer. Too short, for one, and largely devoid of that poker-up-the-ass look that Starfleet seemed to cultivate amongst its officers.

'Director Sloan, I guess. So you're the reason I've been relieved of my duty at DS9 and dragged out here, huh?' Kira asked him, straight out, while Garak simply took the seat offered to him and looked about, inscrutable as ever. Kira knew she'd get nowhere with diplomacy, not against these two; if they wanted a Bajoran, she'd damn well give them Bajoran. Garak could do the smooth talking.

'Correct, Major,' the man answered. 'I am Luther Sloan. I believe Admiral Nechayev has briefed you on this mission already?'

'You know, it might have been easier for you just to tell us in the message, rather than making us come all the way here. Going to Cardassia by way of this starbase isn't the most direct of routes,' Garak pointed out in his fussiest, most pernickety voice. Kira snorted.

'In other words, no, we haven't been briefed,' she said flatly.

Sloan laughed, but Nechayev suddenly looked like something nasty-smelling had been waved under that delicate Terran nose of hers.

'I can see why he likes you, Major,' Sloan said, still chuckling. Kira narrowed her eyes.

'You can see why _who_ likes me, exactly?'

She knew, of course, but she wanted to make these two work for it. The only Starfleet officers she had any loyalty to were Sisko and the DS9 crew, and she was going to make that crystal clear. She didn't particularly like Garak being there, either, but she figured he already knew too much.

'Gul Dukat, of course. He's the whole reason you're here. I understand that the two of you have a somewhat... complex relationship,' Sloan remarked, looking sidelong at her. Kira folded her arms.

'I don't think that's any business of yours, _Director_,' she retorted, injecting as much contempt into the words as she dared. She was actually rather rattled by the knowledge that she'd been a talking point between Dukat and Sloan – what had he done to Dukat, to get that knowledge out of him, or had Dukat been more than willing to talk about it?

'No, no, of course it isn't,' Nechayev mollified her, raising placating hands. 'Nevertheless, he is the originator of the idea behind this message, Major... or should we call you Miss Ghemor?'

Just as she thought: it was Dukat's idea and he'd sold it to this odious little Intelligence man – for what? His freedom? His life? Or perhaps they'd just forced it out of him. She wasn't sure which made her feel worse. Dukat selling her out to save his own skin would hardly be unexpected behaviour for him, but she wouldn't lie to herself about it – it hurt more now than it used to. The idea of it being forced out of him somehow... She didn't even want to think about what it would take to make him crack. And she didn't want to think about how she'd feel if she saw him like that, mainly because the little terrorist in her head was shouting gleefully about him getting what was coming to him. It was all too confusing. She shrugged.

'So I'm going undercover as Iliana. I guessed as much. What was his price?'

Sloan and Nechayev both looked carefully blank, while Garak smiled thinly. Kira nodded.

'Alright, you're not going to tell me. Fair enough. By the way, I'm not working for Bajor on this one. I'm working for you. So if anything happens to us over there, you're the ones who are going to have to deal with the fallout. I hope it was worth it, for your sake as well as his.'

Sloan nodded, with a smile even thinner than Garak's.

'I think you're going to be good at this, Major Kira. And no, I haven't forgotten that you still don't know exactly _what_ you're supposed to be doing...'

'Actually, I think I've got a fairly good idea,' Garak interjected. 'The objective is to start a rebellion against Dominion rule on Cardassia Prime, presumably by planting some kind of evidence which incriminates Weyoun and whichever Legate happens to be in charge this week. I must say, they've been going through them like wildfire recently. Damar hasn't done very well, has he?'

Kira was astonished. She hadn't heard anything about Damar. Naturally she'd assumed that he took over from Dukat, but if he too had been replaced then they'd be up against someone completely new. She wondered what had happened to Damar; she hated the man, but he was Dukat's man rather than Weyoun's. She'd be relying on Garak even more than she'd anticipated, if she didn't even know who the Cardassian leader was any more. Though she doubted anyone else knew either, except Sloan.

'Impressive,' Nechayev commented, while managing to seem totally unimpressed. 'Mr Garak, I understand that you are still in communication with some sources on Cardassia?'

'Oh, well, I have a few old friends, yes – but sources? Hardly.'

'I see,' Sloan said coldly. 'And have these _old friends_ of yours mentioned anything about the current feeling among Cardassian citizens? What's the mood like?'

Kira had a feeling Sloan already knew that as well, and was simply testing them in some way. In fact, he was quite Cardassian-esque himself in some respects, which made her inclined to distrust him. The sooner they got all this briefing stuff out the way, the better, as far as she was concerned.

'I wouldn't know – after all, it's not as if I'm in regular communication with them,' Garak answered. Sloan looked mildly annoyed, though he didn't say anything. Kira wondered what kind of game Garak was playing, and whether Sloan would play along. She also wondered whether _she'd_ be expected to play along too; she hoped not.

'Very well; it seems you both have a fair idea of what's going on here,' Nechayev said briskly. 'I dare say you know better than I what the risks will be, and how to deal with them. It goes without saying that if you get caught, it'll be difficult for us to retrieve you without a major incident, so I advise extreme caution. Director Sloan will brief you more extensively later this afternoon, but for now I suggest that the two of you make sure you are fully prepared. Good luck.'

She left the room, not bothering to disguise her contempt of Garak, who gave her retreating back a cheerful smile in return.

'What an... intriguing woman,' he remarked. 'I don't think she likes me very much, I'm afraid. Still, it's not every day that a humble tailor gets to meet a Starfleet admiral!'

Kira grimaced behind Garak's back at hearing those words yet again; Sloan noticed it and his mouth quirked ever so slightly. The three of them were playing a very strange game here, and Kira felt quite out of her depth. These Starfleet people were supposed to be on her side, yet she felt more and more threatened by Sloan every time he looked at her. And as for Garak, she didn't know what the hell he was doing and she was sure things would quickly get out of hand if she wasn't careful. She resolved to watch her back even more closely, and get away from Sloan as fast as she could, because she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something not quite right about him. She knew she was judgemental and distrustful, but it had served her well over the years. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

'Major, I suggest you report to the medical bay as soon as possible. You'll need to allow enough time to adjust to your alterations,' Sloan reminded her. 'And Mr Garak, why don't you tell me the intriguing cover story you've undoubtedly sorted out for the pair of you, so we can all get our facts straight. It wouldn't do to have holes in our costumes, especially not in front of an audience as observant as your people.'

Kira gladly left Garak with Sloan; knowing the Cardassian's perversity, they'd probably get on like a house on fire. As for her, she was still dreading having to become Iliana Ghemor again, but it would provide some kind of cover against Sloan. She didn't know where this paranoia had come from, and she sure as hell wasn't going to ignore it. Her last thought as the anaesthetic kicked in and the doctor bent over her was of what Dukat would do if he saw her like this. Laugh, probably.

She woke up much later, stiff and aching all over, with skin that bristled and burned under its covering of scales. She had no idea what they were made of, but they felt absolutely horrible, like shards of metal stuck all over her, thousands of them digging into every inch of her flesh. Her scalp prickled too, from the synthetic hair they'd stitched onto her own; she felt its itchy length around her shoulders and looked down at the black tangled locks. So, she was Iliana again.

'How are you feeling, Major?' Garak asked, suddenly looming into her field of vision. She started and shot up in bed, clutching the sheet around her furiously.

'Prophets, Garak, don't you dare sneak up on me like that!' she snapped. Garak shook his head.

'Gods, Major, not prophets. We have gods on Cardassia – or at least, we used to. Anyway, I came to tell you that Sloan doesn't want to see us again until this evening, so you've got plenty of time to get yourself sorted out.'

'Fine, whatever,' Kira muttered. 'Now get lost, would you?'

'Also, I took the liberty of replicating you some appropriate clothing. It's not the height of fashion, but you should blend in well enough. I hope it fits, the measurement chart was a bit primitive,' Garak fussed as he laid a bundle of some greenish, shiny fabric on the bed next to her, then a multitude of long silver pins which Kira assumed were for her hair. She had to glare at him a couple more times before he left though; he seemed to be utterly fascinated by her in this disguise. When he'd finally gone, she got awkwardly into the green dress, her fingernails snagging on the unfamiliar ridges and contours of her body. Thankfully her "scales" were nowhere near as sensitive as her own skin, so she managed not to hurt herself too much, but it was beyond strange to reach up and find ridges on her shoulders and down her back. She also missed her peripheral vision, obscured somewhat as it was by eye-ridges now; she found herself having to turn her whole head whenever she wanted to look left or right. She'd have to get used to that, and fast; it wouldn't do to be ambushed from the side and not see it coming. Having found a mirror in the little alcove that served as washroom, she inspected herself critically. It wasn't as much of a shock as the first time, but she still didn't like it. Sighing, she took one last look at her grey, scaly face with wide, worried Bajoran eyes, then began to wrestle Iliana's hair into some kind of order.

Ten minutes and numerous jabs to the scalp with the wickedly sharp hairpins later, she was at a loss. There was nothing to do in her quarters, she really didn't want to run into Garak or Sloan again until she felt a bit more normal, and she wasn't exactly comfortable wandering around the starbase looking like this, even though everyone probably knew she wasn't a security risk. She didn't think she could deal with being stared at right now. There was only one thing she wanted to do, which was find Dukat and kick the crap out of him for putting her through this, and when she happened to look at the floor plan by the turbolift and notice the area marked 'Detention Wing,' she could no more have stopped herself than a Ferengi could when faced with a big pile of unguarded latinum. The guard on duty at the detention block, a big sandy-headed guy, was obviously in on the plan, because instead of asking for any kind of security clearance, he just stood aside with a rather nasty grin.

'Just a little further down on the left, Major – uh, Miss Ghemor,' he said with a hint of a sneer. 'Cell eleven. Want me to escort you?'

'Thank you, I'll find my own way,' Kira said said as coldly as she could manage and strode down the corridor, only to walk right into Sloan as she turned the corner. She hastily recovered herself and moved away from him as he looked her up and down, slowly enough to make her borrowed skin crawl even more than it was doing already.

'Major, you look _perfect_. I doubt even Iliana's own father would notice the difference.'

She knew that was deliberate, and she wanted to hit him for it. Cardassians don't do that, Nerys, she reminded herself. Instead she raised an eyebrow as high as it would go, feeling the crest of scales arch and stretch out over her eye.

'Excuse me, I'm trying to get past.'

'I know. I've left the forcefield open for you. It will close automatically in fifteen minutes, so I'd advise you not to overstay your welcome.'

And with a quiet chuckle, he passed her by. Fuming, she stalked up the corridor to cell eleven... and stopped dead in the doorway, all thoughts of kicking the crap out of Dukat wiped away in an instant. The bedraggled, untidy, painfully scrawny figure sitting on the bunk resembled the Dukat she knew only because it had his long neck; otherwise, he was barely recognisable. His hands were bandaged, his face was adorned with several dressings, and most of his skin was raw and flaking like he'd been burnt. He stared up at her out of bloodshot eyes for a second or two, apparently dumbfounded, then broke into a hoarse, crackly laugh which quickly became a hacking cough.

'What the hell is so funny?' she demanded, mostly to distract herself from the way his shoulders shook as he coughed, and the horrible bubbling sound it made. He looked _terrible. _She quickly clamped down on the thought that it was her fault he ended up here. She didn't need to think about all that, not now; she had more than enough to worry about.

'Ah... excuse me,' he said huskily, wiping his eyes with one bandaged hand. 'I don't mean to be rude, Major, but if you walk around Cardassian streets with your hair like that, you're liable to get asked how much. Here, let me tidy it up for you.'

'You know, you don't look so great yourself!' she retorted, stepping into the cell and noticing that it was a little warmer than outside, the lights a little dimmer. 'What the hell did they do to you?'

'I'm shedding,' he explained with a grimace. 'Revolting, isn't it? You should have seen me a week ago, I looked even worse. Every time I moved, another bit of me split open. Now come here and sit down, let me fix that hair.'

'At least the skin you're losing is your own,' she shot back as she sat down next to him and turned her back. He drew the long sharp pins out of her hair one by one, the thick dressings over his fingers making his movements clumsy and stiff. Up close, he smelled odd, like chemicals and a strange dry muskiness which she assumed was dying scales. She didn't allow herself to enjoy the feel of his hands on her hair too much; they weren't really his hands and it wasn't really her hair.

'You didn't happen to smuggle any kanar in, did you?' he asked casually. She snorted.

'Oh, sure, because I've got nothing else to think about apart from your drinking habits!'

'Pity, I could do with a glass or two of the good stuff... Hmm, they did a nice job on this,' he remarked approvingly, pulling the last pin free and letting the glossy dark hair fall down her back. She felt his cool breath on the back of her neck as he buried his face in it, one bony arm wrapping around her waist and his ribcage pressing into her back. She wanted to lean against him, to steal another few minutes where they could forget about everything else, but she'd rather Sloan didn't find them this way. Joy is vulnerability, Iliana. The more you have, the more you lose. And they'd both lost a hell of a lot already, one way or another.

'No time for that,' she muttered, shoving him off and ignoring his indignant hiss. 'And speaking of kanar, you know Damar's been replaced as leader?'

That got his attention; he sat bolt upright, nearly knocking her off the bunk as he did so.

'When did that happen? Who's in charge now? Quick, tell me,' he asked urgently, looking into her face. She shrugged, suddenly feeling bitter and rancorous.

'How would I know? And what difference does it make? You people are all the same – whoever it is will execute me horribly when they catch me, end of story. This is all your fault, Dukat!'

She saw his face fall; he shut his eyes for a moment, looking old and very tired, then he touched the spoon-shaped hollow on her forehead with his bandaged finger. Non-skin against non-skin.

'Nerys,' he began, but she shook her head wearily, the bitterness passing.

'Don't. I understand. I didn't want to, at first, and I should kill you for putting me in this position, but I get it. Well, I'm trying to, anyway.'

'It shouldn't have ended this way,' he said softly, turning her head sideways with one hand and grasping the long loose hair in the other. 'But then, it's not ended yet, has it?' he continued, mouth now full of hairpins. 'Don't move too much, I don't want to stab you in the head with these things.'

She sat very still while he twisted the hair into a complicated coil and pinned it up, much more neatly and intricately than she'd managed. He'd obviously done it before, and she wanted to ask him where he learnt to do it – yet another of those little things about him that was entirely unexpected and rather appealing – but there were more important questions. That one could wait.

'Dukat, I have to know. What did Sloan offer you? In exchange for Iliana Ghemor, I mean.'

'Nothing,' he said blankly. 'He already knew. I didn't have to tell him anything.'

'So why does he still need you? Why haven't you been sent to some penal colony somewhere?'

'I wish I knew. He hasn't pushed me for any other details either, which is even stranger. Maybe he's saving that for later. I can hardly wait,' he muttered with a scowl, then winced as another few scales came loose from above his eye. She suddenly felt desperately bad for him, and for everyone who was caught up in this mess. She turned away from him to hide her face, sitting up poker-straight.

'Tell me about the dissidents,' she said. 'Who are they and how do I find them?'

He leaned close again and she thought for a second that he was going to kiss her; his mouth brushed the ridge along her jawline and his hand slid up the back of her neck, into her hair.

'_Kantar en_ _i'las,_' he whispered quickly, right into her ear. Before she could ask what he meant, he leaned back, grinned at her and said at a normal volume, 'I wouldn't know anything about dissidents, Major. I was on the other side, remember?'

She had a mind to ask what the hell he was doing, then Sloan and Garak appeared in the doorway and she kept quiet. Even now, he was playing everyone off against each other. Even now, when he had nothing, he was still gambling with everything. She felt him shift slightly as he saw the other Cardassian, saw that too-thin frame tauten, like duranium wire being twanged from either end. She noticed that he didn't react to Sloan at all. It probably took some doing; she could feel her skin bristling at the very sight of the man, and he was supposed to be on her side. Scales, she corrected herself absently. Scales, not skin.

'Dear me, how the mighty have fallen,' Garak sniffed, looking around the cell. 'At least it's a half-decent temperature in here; you must have traded several secrets for that privilege...'

'You'd just love to get your hands on those secrets, I'm sure,' Dukat snarled. 'In your dreams, tailor. What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Fed up of being Sisko's pet spoon-head, eh?'

'I'm helping the major to save our homeland from your stupidity, as it happens,' Garak answered with an infuriating grin. 'You're probably best off in here, you know; you're much too indiscreet to be any use at all on a mission like this, even if Starfleet were stupid enough to let you out early.'

'Isn't he just. Couldn't keep quiet if you paid him,' Sloan interjected, looking sidelong at Kira. Dukat gritted his teeth.

'You never told me you had an accomplice, _Miss Ghemor,_' he remarked pointedly to Kira. 'I'd watch my back with him around, if I were you. And Sloan, I don't think much of your choice of legman. You must be very confident of where his loyalties lie. I'm certainly not.'

'What you think or don't think is very much by the by, Skrain,' Sloan said, almost fondly. 'And I advise you not to start all that hostility again, not when you've been so helpful recently. Remember the benefits you gained from telling me what I need to know? Don't make me take them away again.'

'What _benefits_?' Kira snapped at Dukat, the unconscious seed of doubt that had started to grow in her mind when Garak mentioned being indiscreet suddenly bursting into savage life. What had he done now?

'That's between him and me,' Sloan broke in as Dukat opened his mouth to protest. 'Isn't it, Skrain? Now come on, Miss Ghemor, your fifteen minutes are almost up.'

Kira stood with a rustle of skirts, wanting to get away from all of them.

'Yes, thank you, I'm aware of that.'

She blocked out the other two by turning back to Dukat and tilting his face toward hers with her hand, the reverse of what he'd done earlier. She leant close enough to him that it looked like the prelude to a kiss, and locked her gaze with his.

'If I die out there, I'll get even with you from beyond the grave. I swear I will,' she hissed. Quick as any snake he stole the kiss that she hadn't offered, leaving her breathless and half-dizzy.

'Oh, I believe you,' he answered, his usual insolent grin firmly in place but his eyes full of all sorts of things that she knew were only meant for her: warning, pride, regret, desire and that bittersweet tenderness she'd thought of so often since he'd been gone. He touched her cheek, just once.

'Take care, Iliana.'

Unbalanced, unhappy and desperately trying to get herself under control, she shoved him back against the wall and stormed from the room, neither noticing nor caring whether the other two followed her.


	6. Fragile Things

**A/N: **Argh, what a week *falls over in heap* This chapter was a pig to write, but here it is – hope you enjoy it. Let me know.

**A/N Supplemental:** I used a map to get the names/positions of the planets right. I found it here, if anyone's interested:

**[aitch tee tee pee] :/ sttff [dot] net / images / AST_MAP [dot] [aitch tee em el]**

Sorry about the long convoluted link but it'll disappear otherwise! This is a really good map, way easier to read than some of the others (which are seriously headache-inducing...)

**6: FRAGILE THINGS**

_People are fragile things, you should know by now_

_Be careful what you put them through_

_People are fragile things, you should know by now_

_You'll speak when you're spoken to_

– _Editors_

Sisko was worried. He wasn't a man overly given to worry, preferring instead to take comfort in small things when the going got tough, but this was a worry that would not shake itself free of him. He'd studied Earth's history and he recognised, in the stony silence that the war had started to turn into over the last six weeks, echoes of a period in the 20th century that was known as the Cold War. He turned the term over in his mind. Cold war. A war with no real fighting, a war of threats and lies and fear and spying, stopping short of actual large-scale conflict – most of the time. A war that was not a war, a war that was simply a shadow, an empty, endless waiting that sapped the spirit and preyed on the mind until, finally, inevitably, somebody along the line snapped and all hell broke loose. In some ways a battle was almost better; not really, of course, because people died and got injured and all sorts of destruction happened, but at least a battle had an _end._ This didn't. This was week after week of Jem'Hadar who showed up out of nowhere, fired a few shots then darted away again; this was week after week of waiting for the new offensive from the Dominion that everyone knew was on the cards, yet it never reared its ugly head. He knew Starfleet wouldn't be the first to move; they were the defenders, not the aggressors, and they wouldn't snap.

No, he reflected bitterly, instead they did things like pushing the other side to snap, by sending _his_ first officer deep into enemy territory to persuade them to destroy themselves from the inside out. Kira Nerys, the fiercest, brightest-burning spark he knew, amongst a people who squashed sparks before they even had a chance to ignite. She didn't have an icicle's chance in hell, even with the dubious support of Garak. Sisko wondered if he'd done the right thing, sending the tailor with her; it was highly possible that he'd desert her and sell her out to regain his place amongst his people. She was strong, oh yes, he knew how strong she was, but could she take it? If she cracked, they were all lost. That would be all the excuse they needed to start another major attack, and this time even Bajor wouldn't be safe; all the anti-aggression treaties in the galaxy wouldn't protect them if the Dominion and the Cardassians found out who "Iliana Ghemor" really was.

The same went for DS9 and everyone on it.

Over my dead body, Sisko vowed. He wanted someone to blame for all this, which he knew he shouldn't do; he was a Starfleet officer, not some drunken Nausicaan out for revenge in a bar-room brawl, but an unwelcome image of Dukat came to mind all the same. There were still traces of the man in this office, just as there had been when he'd first acquired it six years ago, and however hard he tried to expunge them, they were still there. And, as much as he hated to admit it, there were moments when he came close to understanding Dukat. Closer than he thought he would, at any rate. But most of the time his mind absolutely boggled at how anybody could be so arrogant, so blind, so uncaring about the billions of people whose lives he was playing fast and loose with – even a Cardassian had to have _some_ moments where he turned round and asked himself what the hell he was doing, didn't he? Perhaps Dukat knew exactly what he was doing and didn't give a damn. Or perhaps he knew exactly what he was doing _and_ how dreadful it was, but did it anyway, out of desperation or stubbornness or insanity or who knows how many other reasons. Sisko wasn't sure which was worse.

And there were moments, usually late at night after a bad day, where he lay awake and asked himself what he'd have done in Dukat's place, and whether it would have worked. Means and ends, ends and means. And now his first officer, his strong right arm, the woman who he'd started off wanting to throw out the nearest airlock, and who he'd grown to love like his own family, was the means to everyone's end. Prophets, if you can hear me, you'd better keep her safe, he thought grimly, because she's beyond the reach of the rest of us now.

He downloaded the documents Admiral Nechayev had sent him about the substitute for Kira, feeling half-glad and half-guilty that she was being replaced by a Starfleet officer. It would make his job easier in many respects, but he'd learned to appreciate the Bajoran point of view over the last six years; while often wrong, they had a depth of feeling which could not be ignored or brushed aside, not to mention a certain brash, hard-headed confidence which was sometimes a refreshing change from all the procedure and protocol that Starfleet officers had to wade through every day. He opened the file and scanned it quickly. Commander Thomas Wrightwell, who up until recently had been Nechayev's own aide at Starfleet Headquarters. Experienced against the Cardassians, excellent track record with the Maquis, apparently an all-round good egg, though his psych profile mentioned a tendency to be somewhat irritable. Sisko grinned wryly. After six years of being on the receiving end of Kira's incendiary temper, anyone else's would seem tame by comparison. He was interrupted by a message coming through on his computer: Nechayev herself. Secure channel, he noted.

'Admiral,' he greeted her politely, noticing another man lurking half-off the corner of the screen. He had no idea who it was, never seen him before. She nodded at him.

'Hello, Ben. Just thought I'd let you know, Commander Wrightwell is currently en route to DS9 and he'll be ready to commence duty as soon as he arrives, which should be about 0600.'

'Glad to hear it. Any news of – '

'I'm afraid we can't really discuss that,' the other man broke in. 'Captain Sisko, I am Director Sloan of Starfleet Intelligence. I appreciate you probably have a lot of questions for me, but all I can tell you is this: the briefing and preparation went smoothly and the mission is underway as we speak.'

'Will you be in contact with them? Will you let me know what's happening?'

'I'm afraid not, Captain. From now on, anything relating to your former first officer has been designated as classified, need-to-know only information. I understand your concern, but you must also understand ours; these are very dangerous times and we simply cannot risk a security breach.'

_Former _first officer? Sisko raised his eyebrows and decided he didn't like this Director Sloan much.

'You make it sound like she's not coming back.'

'We must be prepared for that eventuality, Ben,' Nechayev reminded him, not terribly gently. 'Unless the mission is a success, we won't be able to retrieve them. They're on their own out there.'

'Understood,' Sisko said heavily. 'I'll keep you posted about what's happening here.'

'Good. Oh, and by the way, I just heard from a _very _reliable source that Legate Damar is no longer in charge of Cardassia,' Nechayev said with a grim smile. 'I don't know who is, but I dare say we'll find out soon enough, depending on how well the mission goes. Nechayev out.'

Sisko shook his head, half amused. Elim Garak, the plain and simple tailor whose head contained more useful information than the entire Starfleet Intelligence database. If he could be trusted, Kira would find him extremely useful. Sisko didn't let himself think about what would happen to her if he couldn't be trusted.

Enough of this, he told himself. This was the first night in far too long that there hadn't been a warning about incoming raiders, and he was damn well going to make the most of it. He'd catch up with Jake, he'd spend some time with Kasidy, and he'd cook a nice big pot of gumbo just like his father used to make. It was the small things in life that made the difference.

* * *

><p>Kira and Garak had been travelling far too long already, and the shuttle they'd been given by Starfleet Intelligence was beginning to feel cramped and oppressive. They'd had to go the long way round Betazed and the Argus Array in order to change their Federation shuttle for a captured Cardassian one, then sneak across the border using a nebula as cover rather than go anywhere near Setlik, Chin'toka, the Badlands or DS9. They were now almost there; Garak was at the helm, while Kira sat in the back, itching under her false scales and cursing the heat. Garak and Sloan had insisted that she get used to the temperature as soon as possible, otherwise it would be even harder for her on Cardassia itself, so the environmentals were right up and the cockpit was like an oven. Cardassians may not sweat, but Bajorans sure did, and she could feel the moisture on her scalp trickling through her borrowed hair in infuriating rivulets. Trying to ignore it, she went over the padds and data rods that Sloan had given her one more time. She was Iliana Ghemor, deep cover agent who'd spent the last ten years believing she was a Bajoran woman called Lumi Navira, who Sloan had informed her was actually another deep cover agent called Rekal who had failed to return from assignment on Bajor, just the same as Iliana – only Starfleet had conclusive proof that she was dead, which they'd neglected to share with the Cardassians. It had been an astonishingly simple matter for Sloan's team to switch Rekal's records with Iliana's, and now Agent Ghemor, newly restored to her original appearance, was returning to her beloved homeland at last, having tricked the foolish, naïve Federation into releasing her with false promises of defection.<p>

Kira snorted. She didn't have a hope in hell; someone was sure to remember that Iliana's cover-name wasn't Lumi Navira, whatever the file said. And as for implanting false records, well, that was the Cardassians' long suit – they'd see through that in an instant. Besides, her disguise might be enough to fool a casual sensor sweep, but as soon as they did a full DNA test or anything like that, the whole plan would backfire.

'Garak, this isn't going to work, is it?' she said tiredly. The tailor turned around.

'My dear Miss Ghemor, whatever makes you say that?'

'I'm not your dear, Garak, so quit calling me that. I'm saying it because I've just realised that I have a problem. A big problem. What the hell am I supposed to do about my DNA, which is obviously _mine_ and not hers?'

'Ah, yes, they didn't plan that out very well, did they?' Garak said unconcernedly. 'I blame Dukat, personally. No head for details, because he's usually too busy congratulating himself for managing to use his brain once in a while, the arrogant fool...'

'Garak! Prophets' sakes, I know better than anyone what a prize idiot Dukat is!' she spat viciously. She was still furious about that interlude in his cell, and especially that kiss. 'But bitching about him doesn't exactly help me right now, does it?'

'As it happens, _I_ thought ahead. You don't grow up as the bastard son of Enabran Tain without learning a thing or two about falsifying records. Leave all that to me; you just concentrate on convincing everyone that you are Iliana Ghemor, and more importantly convincing everyone that the Federation are stupid enough to trust you. Once you've established that, we can start to work on the real objective.'

'Planting the evidence, right?'

They'd been given two sets of "classified transmissions" which took the form of overtures to alliance, one each to Cardassia's oldest and most hated enemies – the Tzenkethi and the Breen. She'd have to plant them in the archives somewhere, then "find" them and spread them around, so everybody knew Weyoun and the new Legate had struck a deal with either of these powers which offered them Cardassia to occupy in exchange for their support against the rest of the quadrant. How she'd do it, she had no idea, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. If I even make it that far, she thought glumly. Garak nodded.

'Indeed. It certainly won't be easy, but you're the one to do it. I, meanwhile, will contact any of the old underground cells who managed to survive the purges, and arrange for the "evidence" to be leaked as widely as possible. It has to spread fast, or they'll catch us.'

Underground cells. That reminded her of the phrase Dukat whispered in her ear when she'd asked him about the dissidents, before he pretended to know nothing about them. It was in a strange dialect of Kardasi that didn't come through the translators, so she had no idea what the words meant. One of his tricks, maybe – or maybe not. She never could tell with him.

'Garak, what's _kantar en i'las_?'

'Where did you hear _that_?'

'Oh... just, you know, around.'

She somehow got the feeling that it wasn't a good idea to tell Garak the truth; with Cardassians around, truth had a nasty way of coming back and biting you in the ass when you least expected it. Besides, she really didn't need another lecture about how much of a lunatic Dukat was, since that was what her brain had been screaming at her for the last seven weeks, if not longer. Garak frowned thoughtfully, blue eyes narrowing.

'Hmm. I'm surprised, it's quite a specific reference... You're absolutely sure you don't remember where you heard it?'

'Garak, it doesn't matter where I heard it, just tell me what it means.'

'Very well. It means "the place on the other side of the wall." It's a rather obscure and archaic way of describing a secret place, a hideout if you like: somewhere nobody can find you or see you. But it also has other meanings, most of which won't make any sense whatsoever to a non-Cardassian, I'm afraid. I don't know if I can even translate them, much less explain them.'

'Fat lot of use that is,' Kira grumbled. Garak cocked an eyeridge at her curiously, but said nothing. She'd let him speculate, and he'd probably get the answer soon enough, but that didn't mean they had to talk about it. She sighed and turned back to the padds and data rods. Half-joking, she'd asked Sloan what he'd done about the whereabouts of Kira Nerys while she was being Iliana, and Sloan had grinned as he pulled out this transmission apparently from Sisko to Starfleet Command: _Four reported KIA in skirmish with Dominion forces on Stardate [two days ago] including Major Kira Nerys, first officer. Replacement urgently needed. Bajoran Militia have no spare personnel with required experience. Please send someone as soon as possible_. It had given her a horrible cold feeling all down her spine, like someone walking over her grave. She was officially lost now, at least to Starfleet; everything she'd seen pointed to the likelihood that she wasn't coming back. They'd erased her already, to save themselves doing it later when it actually became necessary. The hell with that, she thought. She was damn well going to come back, and the first thing she'd do was kick Sloan's butt from here to Qo'nos for this. She'd had enough of being used.

'We're approaching the nebula,' Garak announced calmly. 'Would you mind taking the helm for a little while? I just need to check a few things back here.'

She changed places with him, noticing that the sweat on her scalp had now turned icy cold; she clenched her hands into fists a couple of times to stop them shaking. _Come on, Iliana,_ she told herself. _You're going home for the first time in ten years_. She didn't let herself think about _her_ home; instead she concentrated on the navigational sensors, counting down the kilometres until the nebula engulfed them and the sensors instantly got snowed out with gas particles. She could hear mysterious shuffling and rustling coming from the back of the cabin and wondered what Garak was doing. The sensor array bleeped. Three... two... one...

'We're inside,' she announced, turning round look at Garak. Something like triumph scudded across his face for a moment or two, turning his blue eyes slightly feral, and she drew back, alarmed. Then it was gone, and he was his usual urbane self once more.

'It feels strange to be going home,' was all he said. 'We'd best stop off at Kelrabi or somewhere and sort out our transport arrangements for further in. Nothing much happens in these outer colonies because there's barely anything left of them after the Klingon attacks, but the closer we get to Prime the more likely we are to run into patrols. Don't get too close to Chin'toka, either, it's swarming around there.'

'Got it.'

She steered them carefully through the nebula, praying they wouldn't meet anything, and as soon as they were out, they raced across as fast as they could on silent running to the barren, war-torn colony of Kelrabi, which had been fought over so many times in the last twenty years that there was practically nothing left standing. Even from the mountain range she hid the shuttle in, it reminded her uncomfortably of what Bajor looked like after the Occupation; mostly blasted, lifeless soil and poisoned rivers, with a few straggly settlements and a ramshackle freighter port the only signs that people lived here. Garak pointed out that it would be far too risky if he travelled with her any further, so from now on she'd make her own way in the shuttle and he'd travel on whatever freighters happened to be going towards Prime. Kira grimaced. She didn't like Garak much, it was true, but she'd rather have him there than not, particularly since he'd know what to do once they arrived at Cardassia Prime. He packed up his things and beamed himself over to the far side of the settlement, leaving her with nothing more than the name of a kanar house in the capital as a meeting point fifty-two hours from now. Alright for some, she thought bitterly, though she knew it was sensible. Iliana Ghemor would have no reason for sneaking across her home territory like a fugitive; that would just make an already suspicious situation even less believable.

Alone in the shuttle, she didn't know whether to sigh with relief – she could now turn the damn environmentals down, to hell with Sloan's advice – or shake with fear. Garak had come up with the plans, he knew the territory, and he was the one who'd remind her when her persona was slipping. She'd thought of some excuses as to why Iliana would be flying around in a tiny shuttle, alone and unannounced, but they probably wouldn't wash with any Cardassians she'd meet. To the Jem'Hadar, she'd be just another Cardassian; they'd probably ask a few questions about where she was going, scan her vessel, then ignore her. Cardassians, however, would be much more suspicious, and a suspicious Cardassian was not something to be treated lightly. Forcing herself not to think about it, she went over her kit one more time. Data chips of false evidence disguised as holos of old enigma tales, check. Lumi Navira's identity card, check. A padd that had been very carefully encrypted – secure enough that whoever found it would be curious, but not so secure that they couldn't crack it with a bit of work – which was her "mission" as a spy for Starfleet and which she'd obviously pour withering scorn on at the first available opportunity, in true Cardassian style. Check. Missing molar – her tongue probed the still-tender spot and she cursed Sloan for his thoroughness – check. DNA, not check but Garak apparently had that under control. Why did she not believe him? Why couldn't she shake the feeling that she was walking right into a giant trap? A plan within a plan within a plan, leading to a trap. That was Cardassian style alright. She shook her head and kept going.

She should have known it would happen. She was barely past Aschelon when her engines cut out and she had to stop to fix them, cursing and sweating and vowing horrible vengeance on Sloan, Dukat, Nechayev and anybody else who crossed her mind, and sure enough, a Cardassian patrol ship appeared on the radar, no doubt on its way back from Setlik. Panicking, she did the first thing that came to mind: blew out the navigational sensors, scrambled the logs and banjaxed the helm control, then sent out a hail. If they were going to find her, she'd at least be ready.

'Patrol ship, this is the shuttle Koras. My navigational systems are down and I've lost helm control.'

'Shuttle Koras, this is the patrol ship Talchar, responding to your distress call,' came the reply. So far, so good. 'Please identify yourself and state your purpose in this sector.'

That wasn't so good. She took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

'Agent Iliana Ghemor, formerly of the Obsidian Order. I'm trying to get home.'


	7. Ruled By Secrecy

**A/N: **loxKardasia, I'd love to help you and I'm flattered that you think I can, but you haven't left me a way to contact you so this might be a little difficult. Get yourself an account and message me if you want to discuss further, I'd be delighted to hear from you.

**A/N Supplemental:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, you make my day :D

**7: RULED BY SECRECY**

_Change in the air_

_And they'll hide everywhere_

_No one knows who's in control_

– _Muse_

Cardassia Prime was entirely unlike what Kira had imagined, and she had to stop herself from gawping as the gul of the Talchar, the patrol ship that had picked her up, escorted her towards the central administration building in Lakat City – a long and uncomfortable journey involving a bumpy ride in a skimmer from the military port and a jolting, dizzying lurch from station to station in the city's jam-packed monorail. Out in the street under the cloudy sky, the colours were brighter than she'd expected, with a strange rich sheen like light seen through smoked glass. Jewel mauve, deep primeval green, a red as dark and thick as bloodwine, dusty yellow like corroded sunshine and soft twilight blue, as well as the typical grey and black. The city was sweltering and horribly humid, as she'd known it would be, but it smelt as rich and complex as it looked: flowers, rubbish, people, machinery, food, chemicals, and dozens of other things she couldn't name. And the people were as different to each other as Bajorans were. She'd always imagined Cardassians as uniform: all grey and ugly, all tall and bulky and forbidding in black armour with cold little eyes. They were not. Some had scales so dark they looked almost purple, some were the palest grey-blue imaginable, and some were even faintly beige, like sand and stone in deserts. She caught herself staring again, cursed and hurried after the gul, who was waiting for her at the corner of a huge plaza thronged with military and civilian personnel, as well as a few Jem'Hadar stationed around the edges, watchful and silent as only they could be. A few heads turned her way: mostly male, middle-aged or over, but she kept her eyes front and ignored them, not sure whether it was out of recognition or whether they were just ogling a young woman. For her own sake she'd rather it was the latter, distasteful though it was to be leered at by strangers.

'Look familiar?' the gul asked as she caught up, his eyeridges raised half-teasingly. She shrugged.

'Yes and no,' she said vaguely. 'Guess I got used to Bajoran architecture after nearly ten years there.'

'Guess you did.'

There was a slight edge to his voice which she didn't like much, but he didn't say anything more and they continued in silence, their footsteps clacking loudly across the paving. He and his crew seemed to have bought her story so far – that is, they'd believed readily enough that she was Iliana Ghemor, they'd treated her well, and no one had asked her anything about Starfleet, but she imagined they were leaving that to the intelligence officers, who the gul had undoubtedly been in touch with. He led her past the guards outside the main doors of the monolithic Central Administration building, a Jem'Hadar and a Cardassian who looked less than pleased with his duty partner, but he managed a half-hearted salute as the gul passed him, and a curious stare at Kira.

'This way, Agent Ghemor,' the gul said with a rather odd smile as he opened another door with a passkey and waved her through, not bothering to stop at the reception desk. 'I doubt you'd forget this place, even after ten years in some Bajoran hellhole. Not that there's many of the old guard left around here these days, not after that messy business in the Gamma Quadrant. I dare say you heard about that?'

'I did, yes. So who's in charge these days? I'm rather out of touch,' she deadpanned, though her heart was pounding like a drop-hammer and she could feel cold sweat on her scalp despite the sticky heat. This dark, cramped corridor and the building around it was the heart of Cardassian Central Intelligence. This was where they interrogated people in exquisitely painful ways until they utterly broke, confessing to every crime you cared to name and half a dozen you hadn't even thought of. This was the home of agents so skilled and so well-disguised that they could infiltrate any group and betray it from the inside out, and nobody would have the slightest idea until it was far too late. She'd heard of several Resistance cells in the Occupation which had come undone that way. It was said, during the height of the Obsidian Order's power, that you couldn't so much as sneeze without it being recorded and catalogued by the people in this building, ready to be used against you at the slightest notice.

'Nobody's really in charge, not the way Tain used to be,' answered the gul. 'Since the Dominion arrived, all the intelligence ops have been amalgamated into the general command structure. It's not like the old days, more's the pity... This office here belongs to Gul Madred. He took over from Tain.'

He shook his head with a slight sigh and pressed the doorbell on their right. The doors slid open to reveal a cavernous office with barely any lighting at all; what little illumination there was only served to make the shadows even darker. A figure at the desk turned around and Kira caught a flash of small, mean eyes in a heavy face. She swallowed hard.

'Ah, Gul Jarok, I've just been reading your report,' said Madred. 'Most intriguing. And is this...?'

'Yes, this is Agent Iliana Ghemor, miraculously returned to us after ten years in the wilderness,' the gul called Jarok confirmed, nudging Kira forward with his elbow.

'Come closer, my dear Miss Ghemor,' Madred invited her, and she made out a thick grey hand beckoning her over. She moved a little nearer to him, feeling like a lamb to the slaughter. _This_ was the kind of Cardassian she'd grown up hating, this was one of the uniform grey ones who stood for nothing but brutality. She could see it in his eyes.

'I don't remember you, I'm afraid,' she said as coolly as she dared. He smiled equally coolly.

'No, you wouldn't. I wasn't involved in intelligence until after the Occupation ended and Tain retired. I'm now head of the bureau. Whatever _that_ means these days with the Dominion overseeing everything...' His smile disappeared as he said this, and she saw Jarok nod vigorously. Trouble in paradise, indeed. He steepled his hands and looked intently at her.

'So, Miss Ghemor, I'm _very_ curious about why the Federation decided to set you free all of a sudden. Care to explain?'

'It's because they're idiots, of course,' she answered brusquely, allowing her old resentment of Starfleet to rise up and do the talking for her. It was depressingly easy. 'I told them I was horrified at what Dukat had done with the Dominion, and I volunteered to pass them information if they sent me home. They fell for it like _that,_' she finished, snapping her fingers in front of Madred's face. He raised an eyeridge.

'And _are_ you horrified?'

'I don't know enough about the situation to form an opinion, but I always thought Dukat was a damn fool. As did my father,' she retorted, her guts twisting at the thought of Tekeny Ghemor and how he'd have felt about having his daughter impersonated a second time. Not to mention how the real Iliana would feel if she came home to find out that he'd died over a year ago. It was horrible.

'I gather that, since my father is not here to be reunited with his only child after so long, that he is _incapable_ of being here,' she said coldly. It wasn't a question; Iliana would not ask questions. She'd know already and she'd deal with it rationally, calmly, Cardassian-ly. She wouldn't get all knotted up inside like this.

'You gather correctly, I'm afraid,' Madred said, and she saw the edge of a nasty grin. 'Which leads me to another matter. Your late father had links to both the dissidents and a Bajoran terrorist called Kira Nerys. Do you know her?'

'I've heard of her,' she answered, though her heart had leapt into her throat. He _couldn't_ know. It must be a stab in the dark – but even a stab in the dark had a chance of hitting something, she reminded herself pedantically, then wished she hadn't. Madred sighed.

'There was a very unpleasant incident a few years ago where Kira impersonated you. Therefore I'm sure you'll understand, particularly in these dangerous times, that we double-check your identity. I doubt even the Bajorans are stupid enough to try the same trick twice, but you never know, do you?'

She was torn between burning with fury at the casual way he twisted the truth, and a crawling horror that the game was up already. She swallowed it all and folded her arms.

'Be my guest. I don't have any Cardassian identity because I obviously didn't take it with me to my original assignment on Bajor, but I've still got the documents made out in my cover name. Here.'

She passed over Lumi Navira's identity card, accidentally-on-purpose letting the encrypted padd with the Starfleet stuff on it fall out of her bag too. Jarok, displaying worryingly quick reflexes, grabbed it before it hit the floor and began looking at its contents, a grin playing around his mouth.

'What's this, Miss Ghemor?'

'That's Starfleet Intelligence's idea of a secure encryption. It's my _mission_ as a Federation agent.'

She put as much sneer as possible in the words, hoping the encryption really was strong enough to look plausible. Madred chuckled and extended his hand for the padd, the other hand working at his computer to cross-check Lumi's card with the Obsidian Order database. She remembered how suspiciously easy it was for Sloan's people to fiddle the records, and she hoped they'd done their jobs properly. Jarok passed the padd over.

'If this is the extent of Starfleet's security protocols, then we're in luck, aren't we?' Madred purred, putting the padd in a drawer of his desk and turning back to Kira. 'Your documents seem to be in order, Miss Ghemor. I'll contact the civilian authorities bureau and get them to reissue your Cardassian identity chip right away... once we've run a DNA check. Can't be too careful, can we?'

She forced herself not to react. Calm, stay calm, they've got no proof. Garak said it was under control, and she had no choice but to believe him. The alternative was simply too unpleasant.

'No, of course not. Do I need to wait here while that's done, or am I free to go? I've been travelling for a long time and I'd appreciate a couple of hours to get my bearings a little. All this has been very confusing for me.'

That was perfectly true, and she desperately wanted to get out of this office, find somewhere which had a lockable door and a working aircon unit and allow herself to discharge all the pent-up fear and adrenaline and nerves of the last week or so, probably by meditating and praying – though it felt deeply profane to even think about the Prophets while on this terrible planet. She just wanted to find a place where all these eyes were not upon her all the time. _Kantar en i'las, _the place on the other side of the wall. Damn you, Dukat, she thought yet again. I never wanted any of this.

'You do not have to stay,' Madred assured her. 'The reception desk will give you a temporary pass to let you in and out of here, so you can return tomorrow to collect your identity card. However, you won't be able to pass any of the checkpoints out of this district without proper documentation.' He leaned forward and Kira felt the net tighten around her, as she'd known it would. 'I suggest you keep to the local area. That will make it easier for us to contact you in the event of any problems with your test results.'

There was a gleam in his eyes, although his voice betrayed nothing and Jarok simply stood there like a rock beside her. She willed away the trembling in her hands and knees as Madred tapped the comm unit on his desk.

'Bureau chief to records office. Prepare to receive full DNA scan, subject...' he fumbled for Lumi's card for a second, 'five-oh-five gamma six blue.'

'Agent Iliana Ghemor?' asked a bewildered voice on the other end of the line. 'But sir, we've already got her records several times over and none of them match the data at Central Archives! Besides, isn't she supposed to be dead?'

'Whatever you've got on her is undoubtedly incorrect,' Madred snapped. 'Prepare to receive scan, _now_. You can do the cross-checking later. And you will _not _question my orders again, you hear?'

He closed the comm with a vehement whack on the unit, and Jarok rolled his eyes.

'I see our alliance with the Dominion hasn't made any difference to that shower of idiots,' he grumbled. 'You should pay them a personal visit, Madred, maybe they'd buck their ideas up a little.'

'Maybe I will. Stand still, Miss Ghemor.'

Madred scanned her slowly and thoroughly with an antiquated-looking tricorder, then poked at his computer for a little longer, before looking up at her with an unpleasant smile.

'Still here? Do feel free to leave; I'm sure we'll be able to find you if there are any problems.'

That was what she was afraid of. She nodded as courteously as she could to the pair of guls, then left the office, forcing herself not to break into a run and trying to ignore the panicked shouting that came from behind a door further down the hall. She didn't want to know.

The air outside in the plaza, hot and sultry as it was, felt impossibly fresh and sweet after the nightmarish murk of Madred's office. She walked around the square a few times to get rid of the shaking in her legs. About halfway round for the second time, she became aware that someone was probably following her, but she didn't turn back to see who it was and after a while she stopped feeling the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. She'd apparently made it through the first test. She had a few hours before the rendez-vous with Garak, so she decided to learn her way around. If she needed to move in a hurry, she wanted to know where she could run to.

* * *

><p>Dukat found himself in the unenviable position of not knowing what the hell was going on. He was missing something, he knew, something that would make things make sense. Why was he still here? Why had he not been killed or shipped off to some penal colony, if Sloan and his people wanted nothing more from him? Since he'd had <em>that<em> conversation with Sloan about Iliana Ghemor, they'd moved him to a slightly less uncomfortable cell, given him food that, while still horrible, didn't actually make him throw up, and even allowed him to go to the medical bay and get his shedding problem treated. But instead of being grateful for these apparent mercies, he paced in furious circles for hours on end trying to figure out _why_. He hadn't co-operated with them, he hadn't told them anything, so there was no reason to offer him clemency, yet that was what had happened. Was he perhaps just doomed to rot here for the rest of his days? If so, why bother? Why not just put him up against a wall and shoot him? The Federation don't do that, he reminded himself sneeringly. They have _standards_. Standards which apparently involved letting their prisoners sit about slowly going mad and taking up cell space, instead of doing the simple thing and killing them when they were no longer useful.

No, the only thing that had happened since that conversation was Nerys-as-Iliana visiting him, and he'd just about worn that out with the amount he'd thought about it, about that fury on the face that was hers yet not-hers, the fury that was no longer what it used to be and _why _it used to be, and she was all the more beautiful for it. The ridiculous threat she'd issued, the kiss he'd stolen because he couldn't help it, then her shove that knocked him half-dizzy – no Cardassian would have reacted like that. All her fierce, wonderful Bajoran-ness so thinly disguised with hair extensions and false scales, to teach his people how to bite the hand that fed them all the wrong food, with only that bastard Garak for company? The odds were very long indeed. Still, it was strangely fitting that she should be the one to rescue his people from the mess he'd got them into – though she wouldn't have had to, if she'd stuck to the plan the first time round, he thought with a grimace. It could have been so glorious, and he'd have been the one at the front of it all, not rotting away on this damn starbase. He was definitely missing something, he knew it. Some piece of the puzzle. Either that, or he was going insane. He got up with a snarl of impatience and began his pacing again, the distance between wall and wall feeling shorter with each day. He _would_ figure this out. There had to be an answer, and he'd find it. He sure as hell didn't have much else to do.

He was so absorbed in pacing and thinking, coming up with a million convoluted theories then dismissing them as fast as he'd developed them, that he didn't hear the forcefield over his cell deactivate, and when somebody tapped him hard on the shoulder he swung round so fast he nearly lost his balance. Sloan, with a grin. Dukat scowled and flopped gracelessly onto his bunk.

'Oh look, you've finally remembered I exist,' he muttered. 'Losing the war again, are you?'

'I hadn't forgotten about you,' Sloan said. 'Actually quite the reverse is true. I just thought you'd appreciate a few days to gloat over the fact that it was _your_ idea to send Kira to Cardassia Prime. You thought you could outsmart the Dominion, didn't you, Skrain? You thought you could trick us.'

Dukat was about to point out that, if "Iliana" succeeded, that's exactly what he would have done, but something hit him with the force of a bullet and knocked the words right out of his mouth.

_Us._

'Yes,' Sloan continued, slowly, smiling a peculiar smile which stretched his face slightly too wide. 'You thought you could trick us, but actually it is we who have outsmarted you. Now you know, and there is not a single thing you can do about it. Your scheming has just sent Kira to her death and your people to their destruction, because, much like you, we do not tolerate disobedience. You did that, Skrain. And now you'll have years and years to think about it, because you are being moved to the top-security penal colony on Earth in one week's time, where you will spend the rest of your days. Close your mouth, you look ridiculous.'

Dukat obviously wasn't thinking straight, because he leapt to his feet madly and flung himself at Sloan, not knowing what it was he shouted, only that he had to make this not be happening somehow. The thing that called itself Sloan slid easily away from him, gelatin, formless, and he fell in a painful sprawl on the floor. Dizzily he looked up, half-winded. Sloan the Founder. Sloan the changeling. Sloan, who had tricked him so thoroughly he never considered it for a moment. Sloan the Founder who now had the strength of ten men and arms six feet long was hitting him and throwing him back onto the bunk and laughing and leaving through the wall, through the door, he had no idea because his head hurt too much and the only thing he could think was _oh gods what have I done?_


	8. On The Plaza

**A/N: **Sorry guys, these past couple of weeks have been a nightmare. I believe the official description would be "mad busy." Glad you're all still with me, and thanks for your patience :D

**A/N Supplemental: loxKardasia**, I've put my email address as a link on my profile page, so if you really want to reach me you can do it there. If your internet's stable enough to allow you to _read_ fanfic, it should be able to handle an email, right?

As for the rest of you, I will _not_ be pleased if you take advantage of this link to fill up my inbox with tons of spam...

**8: ON THE PLAZA**

_Down escalators come to deceive you_

_Behind the smoked glass no one sees you_

_A familiar figure comes to meet you_

_I remember your face from some shattered windscreen_

– _John Foxx_

Kira was lost. She'd been walking for what felt like hours, the heat of the evening sticky and oppressive through her clothes, and the rendezvous time was creeping closer and closer. She stopped in the lee of yet another monolithic administration building, ducked around the corner from the crowds of workers streaming in and out of the doors, and sat down on a concrete step for a minute to catch her breath. She was tired and had nowhere to sleep, hungry with no money for food, and sick of looking over her shoulder to see nothing, when she _knew_ there was someone following her – it stood to reason that there would be. If she could just get a glimpse of them, she'd know what to avoid, but right now it could be anyone. She thought of Gul Madred in his dark office, sitting at the centre of a web like a bulky grey spider, and shivered in spite of the heat. It was beginning to get dark and all the street lights were coming on, their anaemic glow doing nothing to brighten up the shadowy corners. She'd checked on the public information terminal in the square for the address of the kanar house where she was supposed to meet Garak, but finding it on a map and finding it for real seemed to be two different matters. It didn't help that she'd never really learned to read Kardasi characters fluently, despite growing up with bilingual signs all over Bajor courtesy of the occupying forces. She could have walked past it any number of times and not even noticed, and all this aimless wandering and pausing was sure to garner unwanted attention from whoever was following her. She had to keep moving.

She stood up from the step she'd sat down on and began to walk again, having suddenly noticed an alleyway she was sure she hadn't been down yet. She'd tried all the other directions, including the raised catwalks across the square, and they'd all led to closed doors and dead ends, or doubled back to the plaza again. As she walked, keeping one eye out for followers, she noticed how the street got narrower and darker, the buildings less glassy and grand – now ducts and conduits ran across overhead, carving the overcast evening into a grid like a dragnet waiting to descend. She noticed the rubbish piled in the corners, the smell of cooking and rubbish and too many people crammed into too little space. She was reminded uncomfortably of Jalanda City in the Occupation, a memory which tipped over the edge into surreal deja-vu as the alleyway abruptly ended and she stumbled right into a checkpoint – here were soldiers with rifles, here was a watchtower tacked haphazardly onto the side of a tall apartment block, here was a wall and a gate with a forcefield over it, and here she was with no pass and every reason to be detained.

'Hey, you!' called one of the soldiers on duty as she froze in the searchlights, which were suddenly much too bright and harsh compared with the dingy alley. 'You're supposed to have your ID ready for inspection before approaching a checkpoint! Can't you read?' he snapped, pointing at a large sign which she could barely even see in the glare, never mind read. She hurriedly made a show of fumbling through her pockets and her bag, sweating and cursing under her breath, unable to escape. If she broke and ran now, they'd know something was wrong. All about masks – all about acting natural. She mustn't crack. But the soldier was getting impatient, he was coming over... A hand closed on her shoulder suddenly and she quickly stopped herself from spinning and lashing out as a familiar voice cut through the guard's advance.

'Iliana, my dear, I'm so glad I managed to catch up with you! I tried your lodgings, but you weren't in. We've got to get back to the office, those scans have just come through and they're absolutely _fascinating_...'

It was Garak; she couldn't see his face clearly in the glare of the searchlights, but she'd recognise that bulky silhouette and fastidious walk anywhere. She'd never been more grateful to see him.

'Oh – uh, right, sure,' she faltered. 'Guess I won't be going this way after all,' she said to the guard, who simply rolled his eyes and told her to bring her pass next time or she'd be reported, and shouldn't she know the rules by now?

'Apologies, officer,' Garak said smoothly. 'My friend's from Culat, she's new here and hasn't quite learned her way around yet. This won't happen again. Come on, Iliana, this way.'

He led her quickly away from the checkpoint, back down the alleyway, round into one of the streets that linked to the plaza and down a flight of steps so narrow and dark that she hadn't noticed them, though she must have walked this way five times or more. A door opened in front of her, hitting her with a wall of noise and heat and the smell of kanar and food. The place was obviously what passed for a trendy bar on Cardassia Prime, and she didn't like the look of it at all.

'As you can see, it's much too noisy and crowded in here for anyone to track us properly,' Garak said loudly in her ear over the din. 'Let's go through to the back, it's a little quieter.'

The back wasn't much quieter and there were no tables left, so they ended up jammed awkwardly close together in a corner, so close that every time Kira tried to take a sip of the kanar Garak had bought her, she ended up nearly sloshing it down his front. As the lights shifted around the bar, she caught a glimpse of his face for the first time and stared, open-mouthed. He'd somehow altered his features – his eyes were now brown, his skin darker and coarser, his brow-ridges and "spoon" more prominent. It was like looking at another man entirely.

'My name's Lesh Murat, in case anyone asks,' he announced. 'I'm a supplies clerk with the fleet stationed at Setlik, home for two weeks on leave. Don't forget, will you?'

'Nice disguise,' she hissed. 'Now listen, _Lesh Murat, _because I am not happy with this situation. I've got nowhere to stay, no money, I haven't eaten since I landed this morning, and most importantly I was DNA-tested by Gul Madred of the Intelligence Bureau about four hours ago. What do we do?'

'Madred? Dear me, _he's_ not still around, is he? You'd do well to stay on his good side,' Garak remarked flippantly, though she didn't miss the slight widening of his uncannily-darkened eyes. 'I've heard he can get very nasty when crossed. Anyone else?'

'Gul Jarok picked up our shuttle and brought me here. He commands the Talchar.'

'Oh, don't mind him, he's not very important.' Garak sniffed. 'Still, I think the rest of your issues can be sorted out fairly easily. Wait here a moment.'

He left her holding his drink as well as her own and feeling rather stupid while he shoved his way to the bar, returning a few minutes later with two bowls of sem'hal stew and yamok sauce. She supposed she should be grateful, but she never could bring herself to like the stuff; with the sauce it was so spicy it burned her throat all the way down, but without it was bland and stodgy, full of unidentifiable vegetables and overcooked meat. She choked it down anyway, because she was starving, while Garak lingered over his with every indication of enjoyment. She was beginning to get twitchy again, and kept looking around the room to check whether people were staring at her. Anyone in this crowd could have followed her all the way from Madred's office. Garak finally finished his food, dumped both their bowls in a corner somewhere, then turned to her.

'Well, that's the food problem dealt with. With a bit of luck the rest should fix themselves all at once, if you'd care to follow me...'

She was quickly tiring of this game, but she kept his broad back in view as he led her down a corridor which snaked past the refreshers, along the side of what must be the stockroom – which was full of crates and boxes and a furious argument about overtime between two of the bar staff – and out through a back door into another small and dirty alleyway.

'This is the way you should usually come in, if you want to avoid that checkpoint,' he told her as they picked their way down the smelly little passage, overhung by buildings which had grown too much in too short a space of time, their cramped upper floors and balconies leaning out over the narrow gap to form a murky, damp tunnel. 'It was lucky I arrived early and decided to look for you, or that soldier could have got quite unpleasant. It's a very boring life, you see, being a checkpoint guard, and a little casual brutality works wonders for livening up an otherwise tedious shift...'

'You're really not helping, you know that?' Kira gritted out as she stepped in something slimy and almost fell flat on her face; she managed to recover her footing just in time and hurried after him, fuming. 'Now where the hell are we going?'

'Right here,' Garak answered, stopping so suddenly she walked right into his back. He opened a gate she'd not noticed and led her into a high-walled courtyard full of dark flowers in pots, their heavy scent mixing sickeningly with the smell of rubbish from the alley. There was a door on the other side with a dim blue light hanging over it, and Garak let them into a long hallway. Anxious, slipper-clad footsteps flapped down the stairs and a stout elderly woman in her nightdress appeared, squinting blearily at them. In one gnarled hand she gripped a stout walking stick, and her long white hair was fuzzy from sleep.

'Who's in my house and how did you get in? Go away, whoever you are!' she exclaimed.

'It's only me, Mila,' Garak said gently, going forward to greet her. Her lined face lit up with a beaming smile.

'Elim, you little sneak, I should have known! Oh, it's good to see you! That disguise is dreadful, by the way, Enabran would have your head on a plate if he saw that,' she chided him affectionately as they pressed palms. Then she noticed Kira.

'Now _there's_ a face I never thought I'd see again,' she remarked, apparently not surprised. 'Elim, was this your idea? Well, come in and shut the door, don't stand about in the hallway!'

Somewhat nonplussed, Kira followed Garak and the old woman into a comfortable-looking living room full of heavy old furniture, where she bustled about getting tea from the replicator.

'I might have known you'd creep back like a thief one day, Elim – though you could have just come round when I was still awake, instead of startling me out of bed like that! And as for you, dear,' she said to Kira over her shoulder as she poured the tea, 'I'm not sure who you are but I know _why_ you're here, and it's about time too. Now tell me, what's the trouble?'

'A slight issue with some DNA scans, that's all. You've still got the old records, haven't you?'

'Of course I have, silly, you think I'd throw _those_ away?' Mila answered tartly. 'I assume you'll be wanting Iliana's records. You're the absolute spitting image of her, you know,' she said to Kira. 'Are you the same one as last time, that Kira somebody? Horrible business, that was. Poor Tekeny never really got over it.'

Kira nodded, forcing herself not to think about Tekeny. She was astonished by this old lady's knowledge of and apparent lack of concern about their plan. Was she really that obvious?

'Uh, I don't mean to be rude, but... who _are_ you?' she asked bluntly. 'You seem to know all about me, but for all I know, this could be some kind of trap that you and Garak have cooked up together.'

Mila and Garak both laughed long and heartily, and Kira resisted the urge to lose her temper. It had not been a good day, but this could be her only chance of help, so she mustn't blow it. Mila patted her hand with dry, wrinkled fingers.

'You're quite right to be suspicious, dear, but there's no need in this instance. My name's Mila Garak and I raised Elim as my own son. I was Enabran Tain's housekeeper and companion for many years, and this was his house.'

'So you see,' Garak chimed in, 'it's really rather convenient for us, because all the confidential files from Tain's time are stored right here. It shouldn't be too difficult to find Iliana's records and overwrite today's scan. In fact, we'd better do that now. Where are they, Mila?'

'Down in the basement, just like always. You run down and get them, I'm too old to be scrabbling about in all those storage crates at this time of night.'

'Yet still spry enough to menace potential intruders with that great big stick of yours?' Garak called back, already halfway down the stairs. Mila snorted, but fondly. Kira shook her head. So this was Garak's mother. She'd have been hard pressed to imagine him having any kind of family at all – he was so solitary, so self-contained, the idea that he had genuine, non-political connections with other people was a strange one – but now she'd met Mila she could see where he got his ways from. The unassuming exterior that disguised a core as strong as duranium, the blasé, easy-going attitude belying that razor-sharp intellect. She had no doubt that Mila was equally as dangerous as her son, but she wanted to be able to trust her. There was no-one else here she could trust, after all.

'Found them,' Garak announced suddenly, making Kira jump as he came back in holding a couple of isolinear rods. Mila activated the computer terminal in the corner and the two of them bent over it, muttering together about systems and subroutines that Kira couldn't make heads or tails of. She heard Mila curse in frustration, and Garak turned to her.

'Sorry this is taking so long. It seems whoever's running the Bureau archives these days is both stupid and overly paranoid, never a good combination... There, Mila, that's it! Drop it in, then exit the whole system so it just looks like a routine shut-down – ah, excellent, that should do it.'

Mila tapped in some commands with a satisfied nod, and Kira could just about read that the flashing green characters on the screen said "Record Updated." It was really as easy as that? Why did she feel like this was all going to go wrong, sooner or later?

'Well, that's that taken care of,' Garak announced with a smile. 'What else was on your list?'

'A place to sleep, of course. You're welcome to stay here, dear; I knew Iliana in the old days and she often came to me for help and advice, so nobody would question it.' Mila opened her arms wide. 'I welcome you into my house as a fellow Cardassian,' here she and Garak both cracked identical smirks, 'and a fellow member of the former Obsidian Order, long may it be remembered.'

Kira relaxed. It might all go wrong tomorrow, but for tonight at least, she was safe enough in this house, the house that was once the most dangerous place on Cardassia. A fitting irony. She wasn't keen on red leaf tea, especially in this heat, but she drank it and kept quiet while Mila and Garak talked fondly of the old days, when the Obsidian Order were powerful and Tain was the king of the network, which made for spine-chilling but useful listening. They also talked about Iliana, and she paid special attention to that. Apparently Agent Ghemor had been very young for an agent and supremely talented at gaining people's confidences, but she had a tendency to make friends too easily with the people she'd been sent to spy on, which had earned her an unfortunate reputation among her peers as a bit of a liability. The long, deep-cover assignment on Bajor was mostly an excuse to keep her away from missions in Federation territory, which they didn't think she was reliable enough to handle; she'd been proud that they'd picked her, but it was not really on merit that she was given the job. Kira found herself almost beginning to like Iliana, the keen, sad young woman desperate to do right by a country she was much too gentle for, let down by her own too-honourable nature – too good at listening to the yes when what she was supposed to do was make other people listen to it, then stab them in the back for doing so. Perhaps if she'd survived, that honour could have really gone somewhere. But then again, Kira was the owner of that nature now. Perhaps it could still go somewhere, if Cardassia and the Dominion didn't kill it first.

* * *

><p>Deep Space Nine was quiet. Too quiet, Jake thought as he wandered the corridors, bored and lonely and strangely hollow-feeling after everything that had happened during what people were now calling the Second Occupation. True, the place wasn't a huge, deadly trap now, but neither was it much else. He knew it was petulant and childish but he couldn't help thinking that nobody had time for him any more; Nog was busy with his Starfleet duties, Miles was either working like mad or spending every free minute in the holosuites with Julian doing heaven only knew what, and his father was so busy that he barely even saw him from one day's end to the next. Their new first officer had arrived, and according to the station's grapevine, he wasn't a huge hit with the Bajoran personnel, nor the regular Ops crew for that matter; some of the names Dax called him after a few too many Black Holes would make a Nausicaan blush. Jake had spoken to him a few times and he didn't seem too bad, if a little stiff and formal, but no one could replace Kira. The station felt much emptier than the absence of a single person would warrant (plus Garak whom Jake didn't like, so didn't miss much) but then Kira had always seemed to contain more life than her slight frame could hold; her laughter, her anger, her fierce uncompromising loyalty to those whom she trusted, the glowing pink of her uniform and ring of her boot-heels as she strode purposefully through the corridors. She and Cardassia will never survive each other, Jake thought gloomily, and this place will be dull and flat and depressed forever.<p>

He knew it was not just the absence of Kira that created this void; it was also the war, or lack thereof. Everything had gone strangely silent over the last few weeks, and even the night raids by Jem'Hadar had become less frequent. This either meant they were running out of ideas, or they were cooking up a new plan. Jake sincerely hoped it was the latter, because he'd experienced enough of the Dominion to last a lifetime. He still woke up in cold sweats when he dreamed about being arrested with Ziyal in the comms tower. He'd honestly thought he was going to die back then, and if Odo hadn't come and let them out, he would have gone mad in that cell. He still hadn't got to the bottom of the whole business with Nerys and Dukat and Ziyal and Garak, and he doubted he ever would, but he knew he wasn't the only person who thought about it.

No, he knew Ziyal thought about it at least as much as he did. He'd begun to meet her at the Replimat for dinner now and then, in between helping Julian with basic stuff when the infirmary got busy, hanging out at Quark's and perfecting his dom-jot, or writing for the news bulletin, which was becoming more and more of a chore – what did one write about, when no news was supposedly good news? Their meetings had begun to turn into something he looked forward to more and more, until he caught himself actually planning what he'd say to her in the middle of trying to write an article and had to laugh. Was this a _crush_ of some kind? If so, it was the oddest crush he'd ever had on anyone – his father's enemy's daughter, no less! She was so different from anyone else he'd ever met, yet so reassuringly the same in so many ways. They'd been arrested together, they'd hidden from the Jem'Hadar together, and he knew she was feeling as lost and confused by these strange empty days as he was. It was only natural that he felt some kind of connection to her. Wasn't it?

He met her that afternoon, at the table in the Replimat that had become habitual, and he noticed that she looked worried, which made him curious.

'What's on your mind?' he asked her straight out, and she sighed and shook her head.

'You always know, don't you?' she remarked. 'Alright, I'll tell you, because I need to tell somebody and I doubt anyone else would take me seriously. You know the new first officer, Commander Wrightwell?'

'What about him?'

'This might sound strange,' she said hesitantly, 'but I think he's up to something.'

'Seriously? Why d'you think that?'

Ziyal looked round guardedly, then dropped her voice.

'I was walking past his quarters a few days ago and I couldn't help overhearing him make a transmission. I don't know who the man on the other end was, but they were talking about some kind of plan, something to do with the wormhole, and they both mentioned your father's name several times. They started arguing, but then I sneezed and I was scared he'd come out, so I ran.'

Jake sat quietly, thinking. He didn't know enough about Wrightwell to form any kind of conclusions as to his character, but the guy had "Starfleet" written all over him, even when out of uniform. Could someone like that really be a Dominion spy? If indeed he was spying for the Dominion at all, and not the Federation – though why would they spy on their own? Perhaps he was a counter-intelligence agent, put there to _catch_ a spy, but then who was the spy?

'It could be nothing, I could be totally overreacting,' Ziyal admitted, 'but what if it isn't nothing and we ignore it? That could be disastrous.'

'Want me to talk to my dad about it? You know, just have a word with him?' Jake offered. He didn't like the idea of doing that – if Wrightwell wasn't a spy, they'd look damn stupid, not to mention getting in a whole lot of trouble for throwing accusations like that around – but Ziyal was right, if they didn't do anything, it could turn out much worse.

'We need more proof,' he said flatly. 'We need to have evidence that he's actually doing something before we tell anyone about him. Listen, we can't discuss this here, someone might overhear us. Where else can we meet that's a bit quieter? Not my place, Nog might be around... Yours any good?'

Ziyal's pale grey skin suddenly flushed darker, and she looked down at her hands shyly. He realised he'd never seen her quarters, he wasn't even sure where they were, and also he'd never been entirely alone with her before, not in that kind of setting anyway. True, they'd be working on something which could turn out to be serious business, but it was still strangely... intimate.

'OK,' she mumbled. 'Be there tomorrow at 1400. Press the bell three times so I know it's you.'

She then got up, blurted an excuse about having forgotten to do something and positively ran away down the Promenade, leaving Jake with her half-drunk tea, a really strange kind of date for tomorrow and a head full of thoughts.


	9. Town Called Malice

**A/N: **Many apologies for the unintentional extended silence since my last posting. Been busy, got writer's block, had Internet problems, the usual excuses. Won't happen again, if I can help it. And Happy New Year to everyone who celebrates that sort of thing in January.

**A/N Supplemental: loxKardasia, **there is a special addendum at the end just for you...

**9: TOWN CALLED MALICE**

_Struggle after struggle, year after year_

_The atmosphere's a fine blend of ice_

_I'm almost stone-cold dead_

_In a town called Malice_

– _The Jam_

Kira was due to return to the Intelligence Bureau the following morning, and she woke up over and over during the night in a cold sweat at the thought of being revealed as an impostor, finally falling asleep a few hours before dawn. Her soldier's body clock didn't allow her to sleep long, though; she snapped awake at dawn. For the first few moments she didn't know where she was, and she stared confusedly at the ceiling of the spare room in Tain's house with an increasing sense of panic until memory reasserted itself and she relaxed, though not by much. She had to face Madred again today and one slip, one false step, could mean utter disaster, not just for her but for everyone who was relying on her to succeed. Last night's alteration of the DNA records seemed to have gone off without a hitch, but who could tell with Cardassians? Perhaps they were _all_ playing her false, including Garak, Mila and Sloan. That'd be all I need, she thought gloomily, then gave herself a stern talking-to. Caution was one thing, but paranoia was entirely another. She couldn't afford to doubt Garak and Mila, because she didn't have anyone else.

She got out of bed, gladly throwing the covers aside – it was already warm, even this early in the morning – and curled into the arch of the eye-shaped window to watch the smoggy sunrise over Lakat, the heavy air's pink and purple and grey shot through with muffled gold which made the curved spikes surmounting each building glitter faintly from certain angles, like gaudy claws. She'd never tried the cocktail called "Cardassian Sunrise" but she now understood its swirling colours and thick, viscous texture. It was all caused by a horribly polluted atmosphere, but she found it strangely beautiful, despite what she felt about the civilisation it broadcast itself across every morning. Was it every morning? Or did they have fully overcast days, did they have summer and winter like Bajor did? She realised how little she knew about the planet, really; all her experience with Cardassian culture was from the business end of the Occupation. For years she'd thought that was all there was, but after meeting Tekeny and Ziyal (and to some extent, Dukat, though she forced herself back from that unwelcome train of thought) a little seed of curiosity had mixed in with her old hatred, and it was now being fed by the sunrise she watched. But there was no time for this; someone was knocking on the door and she wasn't dressed.

'Just a minute,' she called back, throwing her clothes on and twisting her hair back tightly. She hadn't yet managed to do it the way Dukat had done for her that time, but she could get it fairly presentable. The knock came again, and she opened the door. It was Garak, unsmiling for once, sleek and fully dressed like he hadn't slept at all. She still hadn't quite got used to his disguise.

'You'd better get an early start if you're going back to the Bureau, there's always a big queue at the desk for reissuing identity cards,' he said by way of greeting. 'Meet me by the Iloja of Prim statue in the plaza as soon as you're finished, because we've got lots to do today.'

'And a very good morning to you too,' she answered snappily. She'd been trying not to think about the Bureau, because she had a horrible feeling that something was going to go wrong for her there. She pulled her shoes on and ventured out of her room. Garak disappeared down the hall and she heard a door shut. Mila was already downstairs, cooking something that smelled truly horrible and humming tunelessly to herself over the hiss of the hotplate.

'Ah, there you are,' she greeted Kira. 'Have some taspar fry while it's hot, it's no good cold.'

She flipped a rough cake of greyish-yellow stuff onto a plate, sprinkled some salt on it and handed it to Kira, who poked at it reluctantly. It was soggy in the middle, crusty on the outside, and tasted almost as bad as it smelled. Kira forced it down anyway and even managed a cup of red-leaf tea, brewed so strong she could almost spoon it out of the mug, because she didn't know when she'd get to eat next, and it was better than the disgusting fish juice that she'd seen other Cardassians have for breakfast. Mila was tying a triangular scarf over her hair and packing an assortment of things into a large basket, including, Kira noticed, a long curved dagger of the type favoured as a hand weapon by Cardassian soldiers – which, in untrained hands, could easily cause a suicide instead of a murder. She'd bet good money that Mila knew exactly how to use it, and wouldn't hold back either.

'Come on, dear, I'll walk to the plaza with you,' Mila said, hoisting the basket onto her arm. 'It's very rude to bother old people in the street, as you no doubt remember, so we shouldn't have any trouble.'

Kira was surprised, yet again, but by now she realised that Mila thought of everything; things which should be problems simply rolled off her like water off a duck's back, with nothing more to show for it than the inscrutable smile she shared with her son. She hoped they were not teaming up against her, because she'd never survive it if they were.

* * *

><p>It was even hotter and muggier than yesterday, and Kira thought longingly of her cool, comfortable Bajoran civvies, rather than the full-sleeved, close-fitting Cardassian dress and heavy shoes that she was confined in. But Cardassian women were insanely modest, at least in public, and showing any other skin besides face, neck and hands while out of the house was considered vulgar to the point of indecency. Mila wore several layers over the top of what was required, yet she ambled along with a beatific smile on her old face and even commented on what a nice breeze there was today. Kira sweated under her scales, gritted her teeth and kept quiet, and the Bureau approached like a storm cloud on the horizon. All too soon Mila had left her, with an assurance that everything would be just fine, and she walked across the plaza alone in the crowds of people on their way to work. Nobody stared, nobody muttered behind their hands or shouted after her as she went, and the guards on the door (two Jem'Hadar this time) barely even noticed her, just swiped her temporary pass and waved her through. The woman at the front desk was another story, though. As Kira approached her, she looked up, cold eyes narrowing under her blue-painted "spoon."<p>

'I'm Iliana Ghemor,' Kira told her. 'I'm here to pick up a new ID chip.'

'Yes, I know. However, Gul Madred wishes to see you first, Miss Ghemor,' the woman said, with a hint of a strange smile. 'He's waiting for you in his office.'

'Very well,' Kira acknowledged, trying to sound unconcerned, but her stomach clenched and her less than pleasant breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. It might not be anything bad, but if she panicked and ran now it would _become_ something bad, because they'd figure out that she had something to hide. She couldn't lose her nerve. She pressed the bell, willing her hand not to shake, and the door slid open.

'Ah, Miss Ghemor, there you are,' Madred announced from behind his desk – but she wasn't looking at Madred. She was looking at Weyoun, who sat in a chair on the far side of the office with the obligatory pair of Jem'Hadar standing either side of him like twin gargoyles.

'So, this is Agent Iliana Ghemor, returned to us after a decade amongst the Bajorans, is it?' Weyoun asked Madred, while looking closely at Kira. She thought she saw recognition in his eyes and forced herself not to react. This was the man who'd shot at her. This man was her enemy. She nodded before Madred could open his mouth, resenting being talked about rather than talked to, even if it was by a Cardassian and a Vorta.

'That's me,' she said a shade brusquely. 'You seem to have me at a disadvantage, uh... '

The strangeness of pretending not to know the name of somebody she'd known and hated for over a year was not lost on her. Weyoun smiled urbanely.

'My name is Weyoun, and I am the chief Dominion representative to the Cardassian Union. On behalf of my people, I welcome you back to your homeland. I dare say it has changed in the years you've been gone?'

'You could say that,' Kira answered vaguely, aware of Madred's eyes on her, sizing her up, waiting to see if she squirmed on the hook of his scrutiny. 'But then I don't remember as much as I should. A decade of identity suppression tends to do that to you, I've found.'

'I'm sure it does,' Weyoun smiled, clearly not the slightest bit interested. Kira almost sniggered. He was obviously so full of whatever he was about to say that he wasn't paying enough attention.

'Now, Miss Ghemor, the reason I have taken the time to meet you is that Gul Madred here contacted me last night with a _very_ interesting report. He told me that you'd tricked Starfleet into letting you go by promising to pass them information once you were here. We would like you to do just that, Miss Ghemor. This has become a game of brinkmanship, and if we can force the Federation's hand, we'll have them where we want them. Do you understand?'

'For example, if we _accidentally_ let slip about where we're holding a bunch of Starfleet POW's, they'll probably try some stupid rescue mission and get themselves caught in our territory,' Madred said gleefully. 'Keep them intrigued, arm the trap, and sooner or later they'll blunder right into it. And since they trust you, they'll trust your information. What could be easier, eh, Weyoun?'

Weyoun did not answer, because he was staring at Kira intently.

'You know, I'm sure I recognise you from somewhere, Miss Ghemor,' he said softly. 'It really is very strange...' He leaned a little closer to Kira and she fought the urge to move – she was torn between hitting him and scrambling for the door as she felt those protuberant blue eyes sweep slowly over her. He couldn't recognise her, not a chance. She barely recognised herself, and he was half-blind anyway. He shook his head thoughtfully and leaned back.

'Hmm, perhaps it's just my eyesight. We Vorta are not blessed with good vision, you know. Anyway, we need this to start as soon as possible; we're running out of resources to build more shipyards and cloning facilities, and our last attempt to reopen the wormhole was an unequivocal disaster, thanks to that _idiot_ Dukat. We need some way to turn the war in our favour reasonably fast, and this might just be it.'

'However,' Madred interjected with a significant clearing of throat, 'what I want you to be aware of, Miss Ghemor, is the need for transparency. If we're to do this properly, you'll be subtly altering information that is, for the most part, true.' He leaned forward, and Kira knew what was coming. He'd be watching her. Oh yes, he'd be watching, and she had no choice but to go with it.

'Therefore, you will be reporting to me,' he continued, 'just to ensure that there is no misuse of sensitive information, inadvertent or otherwise. As you said, you've been out of the loop a long time, and I'd hate for there to be any... accidents.'

'Understood,' she said blankly, though she felt like cursing. She already felt strung out on paranoia and she'd only been here two days; however was she going to survive working with Madred for the next foreseeable future, not to mention sneaking false evidence into the system and meeting up with dissidents right under his nose ? She wasn't going to last a week.

'Well, that all seems to work out very nicely,' Weyoun remarked with a twinkly grin, getting up from his chair and motioning for his guards to follow him. 'It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ghemor; I'll be following your progress with particular interest. I'm sure Gul Madred will keep me apprised of the situation.'

He stepped close to Kira once more and looked at her face again. She stayed still, trying for an elegant, uninterested sneer but probably just looking faintly ill. He frowned a little.

'I could swear I've seen you before... Or maybe you remind me of somebody – yes, that must be it. I wish I could think _who_... Oh well, never mind,' he sighed, and left. Madred smirked.

'So, Miss Ghemor, what do you think of our _esteemed_ Dominion envoy?'

'I think he's a smarmy little creep,' she said honestly, realising that she stood more of a chance if she tried to get in Madred's good books; he obviously didn't like Weyoun either, so that was one way to ingratiate herself to him. 'The Dominion may be helping Cardassia, but that doesn't mean we have to be friends with them.'

'Well said,' Madred chuckled. 'I see living on Bajor hasn't spoiled your attitude too much. Now, let's have a little chat about this, shall we?' he said, holding up the fake padd from Starfleet. 'What, precisely, have they asked you to do?'

Kira remembered something that Garak had told her while they were in the shuttle: _the best kind of lie is just the truth from a different angle_. She hadn't understood it then, she'd just brushed it off as one of those annoying things he said, but now it made sense. All she had to do was tell the truth, tell it from the other end. She shrugged.

'Mostly make contact with the dissident movement, but also to keep an eye on Central Command and report on what they're doing. Typical deep-cover mission, just watching and listening.'

'Then I see no reason to disappoint our counterparts at Starfleet Intelligence,' Madred said with a nasty laugh. 'After you've shared your results with me, especially about the dissidents, you will send it off to Starfleet like you've been told. With suitable corrections, of course.'

She nodded stiffly, and after another uncomfortably long and thorough stare, Madred dismissed her, telling her only to keep an eye out around Second District, where the dissidents were rumoured to have some kind of meeting house.

'Come back in two days with anything you've found out, Miss Ghemor,' he said as she got up to leave. 'And give my _fondest_ regards to old Mila, won't you?'

His smile was pure malice, and she fought down horror as she collected her new ID from the front desk then went out into the oppressive mid-morning heat of the plaza. He knew where she was staying, unless it was just a lucky guess. He'd probably figured out that Garak was there too, never mind the disguise. Something was not right here, and she was caught right in the middle of it all. Take care, Iliana...

* * *

><p>Garak was waiting for her by the oldest of the statues in the plaza, that of Iloja of Prim; he sat carelessly on a bench next to the bronze figure, reading a padd and drinking tea from a disposable cup like he didn't have a care in the world.<p>

'Ah, there you are,' he said easily as she approached. 'I gather everything went well?'

She shrugged. If coming out with her skin intact was going well, she didn't want to think what going badly would be like. Unfortunately, she had a pretty good idea already. Garak stood up and offered her his arm – which she took, unwillingly – and they ambled slowly across the plaza, neither saying anything until they were well into the back streets.

'No problems with the DNA test then?' Garak asked offhandedly as he dumped the dregs of his tea.

'That's about the only thing there wasn't a problem with,' she muttered. 'Weyoun was there, and I'm pretty sure he almost recognised me. And Madred's going to have his eye on me for the duration; he wants me to find the dissidents too. I'm really up to my neck in this.'

'Well, as luck would have it, that's exactly where you need to be. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight. Did they give you a new ID?'

She waved it absently at him, and he nodded.

'Good. In that case, we're going on the monorail. This way.'

She didn't enjoy going on the monorail; the carriages were stuffed to bursting and it swept along at dizzying speeds, lurching to a halt so suddenly at every station that people and their belongings got thrown all over the place. They changed to a different line which took them out of the city, which was much slower; on this one she could actually see out the window, and she was astonished at what she saw. People were _poor_ out here on the fringes; those tumbledown houses, unpaved roads, random bits of mongrel technology shoved together out of whatever was going and shonky little twenty-second-hand skimmers would not have looked so very incongruous on Bajor ten years ago. She hadn't expected Cardassia to look so... familiar.

'Not pretty, is it?' Garak remarked. 'When the outer colonies fell to the Klingons and the Federation, thousands of refugees poured into Prime, and there was nowhere for them to go. The Dominion are doing something big over that way,' he pointed at a large black mass of buildings on the horizon, 'but nobody here knows what it is, or cares. Here, this is our stop.'

She managed to grab onto something as the train stopped this time, and they disembarked onto a rough platform. The hot air stank, it was crowded, and a couple of soldiers were idly strolling about and harassing the bunch of people waiting for the next train. Kira and Garak hastily went to the other end to avoid being stopped and questioned. Almost immediately a scruffy-looking man, hair too long, ancient military uniform torn in nearly every seam and hanging off him, appeared right in front of them, apparently from thin air.

'Lesh Murat?' he asked suspiciously. Garak nodded, and the man led them over to a skimmer as battered as he was, parked in the dirt a few feet away.

'We got your message. Are you Ghemor?' he shot at Kira, who nodded, slightly taken aback by his directness. Every other Cardassian she'd met would have waffled around the subject for hours just for the sake of talking, but this one was a man of few words. He jerked his head at the skimmer.

'Get in quickly, the patrol's coming back.'

They crammed into the little vehicle and the man drove off through a bewildering maze of streets, alleyways and yards; the sand that got flung up off the road made it hard to see, but Kira made out scrappy houses, queues outside shops, bedraggled kids who'd grown too much on too little food – they had that pinched, slightly brittle look that Bajoran war children had, the look of someone who was always hungry and beginning to realise they probably always would be. It was uncomfortably close to home, again, and Kira shook her head. Was everything she thought she knew about Cardassians going to be proved incorrect?

Abruptly the skimmer entered a dreary back-street and slid to a halt outside a stone building that appeared to be little more than a ruin, obviously hundreds of years older than the shabby dwellings that made up the rest of the street. As they got out, the man gestured curtly at a door set in a crumbling wall. The rest of the building was covered in mostly obscene graffiti, but the door had a red slogan daubed crudely on it in characters that Kira could not read. Garak nudged her and pointed at it.

'_Kantar en i'las,_ Iliana,' he whispered. Kira sighed; Dukat had been telling her the truth, again. Why did he always surprise her like this, and why did she set herself up for it every time?

'Shut up,' their guide hissed. 'Go inside.'

He all but shoved them through the door and locked it swiftly behind them, before leading them down some rickety stairs into a cavernous underground room, lit by jerry-rigged field beacons and a bitter, smoky fire. It looked like a room in which a lot of people lived, not too comfortably, but at the moment it only had half a dozen men clustered around a computer console at the far end. They were all scruffy and ill-dressed, and most were armed with a motley collection of disruptors, stolen Federation phasers and long curved knives. One of them looked up, and Kira had to stifle an astonished curse. It was _Damar._ Ragged, underweight and badly in need of a wash, the once-proud first officer of Terok Nor looked distinctly the worse for wear, but his aggressive swagger was unchanged as he approached Kira, Garak and their taciturn guide.

'Agent Ghemor, I presume. And you're not fooling anyone with that disguise, Garak,' Damar sneered by way of introduction. Garak shrugged.

'Well, I haven't had any problems yet. Your disguise is much better, I almost mistook you for a tramp,' he answered glibly. 'I take it you've not had an easy time of it. Good job we're here to help you, hmm?'

'_Good_ isn't precisely the word I'd use,' Damar muttered as he studied Kira intently. 'So, Ghemor, you're a double-agent? I'll bet Madred's already got his eye on you. Next time we'll meet elsewhere; I can't risk you leading him right to our door. Entek, did you search them?'

'She's not armed,' answered the man who'd brought them here. 'He probably is.'

'Oh really, what reason would I have to go armed amongst friends?' Garak asked archly. 'I thought we were here as your allies, Damar.'

'You're nobody's ally, Garak, and I'm not stupid enough to forget it. Dukat warned me about you.'

'Yes, well, we all know how impartial _his_ judgement is...'

'Enough,' Kira snapped, already tired of their bickering. 'I take it you're the dissident ring I've been ordered to find and infiltrate? Funny, I was told your headquarters were in Second District.'

'Is that right, Obsidian?' jeered one of the other men, a stocky dark-eyed guy who looked like he didn't spend much time in civilian clothing. 'How many people did you have to interrogate before you found that out?'

Kira hesitated a moment, then realised she couldn't be Bajoran about this. If she was being Nerys, she'd probably take a swing at the guy, but Iliana made her stare at him with a sweet, sharp grin.

'None,' she said softly, seeing him stop short. 'But if you want to be the first, that's fine by me.'

She heard Garak chuckle almost fondly, and another man at the back of the group sniggered behind his hand. The one who'd challenged her shook his head and backed off, muttering. She felt strangely elated, like she'd passed some kind of test – and technically she had. Trust Cardassians to appreciate you based on how unpleasant and threatening you were.

'I think it goes without saying that if you betray us, our supporters will hunt you down and lynch you,' Damar said grimly. 'But if my assumptions are correct, you're not here to betray us, because that would be shooting yourselves in the foot. Welcome to _Kantar en I'las._'

Kira was grudgingly impressed; Damar actually seemed to have grown a brain over the last couple of months, though it was probably because he no longer had unlimited access to the finest kanar, nor did he have to deal with Weyoun every day.

'Has Garak told you why I'm here?'

'Take a wild guess,' Damar answered with a nasty look at Garak. Inherited prejudice was a powerful thing, however misguided; Kira should know, she grew up with it. She shrugged.

'Well, in short, I'm here with a plan. I'm going to plant evidence in the Central Command's archives that the Dominion have made overtures of alliance to the Breen – or perhaps the Tzenkethi, I haven't decided yet but it doesn't really matter, as long as people hate them enough. And in return for their support, the Dominion are going to give them Cardassia. Then I'm going to "find" this evidence and you are going to spread it around as widely as possible. We're going to get people angry enough to fight back against Dominion rule.'

'A revolution, then,' sneered the man who'd insulted her. 'You really have spent too long on Bajor, Obsidian. There hasn't been a successful revolution here in five hundred years.'

'But we've never been ruled by outsiders before. Besides, the Bajorans managed to get rid of us that way quite effectively,' Garak pointed out. 'I've only been back a few days, but it's long enough to notice that people don't seem too happy. Everyone's a little tense, a little wound up. This might just tip them over the edge.'

'He's right, Rusot,' Damar interjected. 'We need to think bigger. Sabotaging arms plants and cloning facilities isn't getting us anywhere, and it's too obvious that we're behind it. But something like this... well, who in their right mind would still trust the Dominion after that kind of knowledge went public? We'd have legions of supporters. It's like Gul Dukat used to say; it's not about forcing people, it's about getting people to force themselves. They're not going to outright support us unless there's no other viable choice.'

'Oh dear, did you actually listen to all Dukat's egotistical rantings?' Garak sighed. 'That's a great many pointless hours of your life that you'll never get back again...'

Rusot sniggered unkindly and Damar rounded on him, snarling. Kira rolled her eyes.

'This wasn't how we... uh, _they_ did it in the Bajoran Resistance. They might be savages,' she said, and Prophets know how but she managed not to grimace while she did so, 'but the Bajorans did know how to organise a rebellion. You'd do well to lay off each other, at least while there are so many bigger problems to deal with. You haven't got time for this.'

Garak grinned as Damar let Rusot go, but she could see Rusot's black eyes on her, curious, frowning slightly. She ignored him. Let him think what he likes: she was only here temporarily, anyway. If this worked, she could go home and never see him again. Never see _any_ of them again.

'Right,' Damar said decisively. 'Approximately how long will it take you to arrange things at the Central Archives, Ghemor?'

'I don't know,' Kira answered. 'Before I do anything in the archives I've got to get Madred to trust me, which means feeding him information about you people for a couple of weeks at least. Have you got a decoy HQ?'

'Second District, of course, I thought you already knew that?' Rusot muttered, which earned him another glare from Damar. Kira nodded.

'Fine. Let's meet there next week and discuss this further, once I've got a bit more idea about what's going on at the Bureau. In the meantime, don't do any more sabotage – let them think you're lying low while I investigate you. Whereabouts in Second District?'

'The street behind the old Hebitian Museum. Look for the red slogan. Entek will be waiting there at sunset one week from today.'

Entek nodded once, and that, apparently, was the end of their part in the meeting. Damar simply turned his back on them, Rusot sneered once more at Kira before following suit, and Entek silently showed them out. Garak was unusually quiet on the trip back to the city, and Kira did not disturb him; instead she looked out the window as the train passed through the squalid outer settlements, and thought about all those people, living like Bajorans during the occupation: slaves in their own country. But would they realise it? Would they answer the call when it came? Or would they, like so many others, go back into their prison and shut the door on freedom?

* * *

><p><strong>ADDENDUM FOR loxKardasia:<strong>

In answer to your original question about Garak (of your review dated 20 Nov 2011) I would say, though I'm no expert, that Garak would not be too comfortable with the idea of loving anyone, or having anyone close to him. He wouldn't let himself do anything about it, I don't think – in fact, he'd try to shrug her off, he'd be cruel to her, because nothing is more important than keeping himself secret and hidden. His priority is Cardassia, always, and if his feelings for this woman got in the way of his duty to Cardassia, that would be an unacceptable situation for him.

I also imagine he'd be quite unhappy with himself: joy is vulnerability, after all. But if something happens to make him realise that _vulnerability is joy_ then maybe he'd let her in at the end.

Like I said, I'm no expert, so take all this with a pinch of salt... and I'm very sorry this took soooo long to answer, I know you asked the question a long time ago. Hope it's still helpful.


	10. On The Campaign Trail

**A/N: **I see you there, lurkers ;) Come on in and say hello, I don't bite...

**10: ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL**

_Now I have your attention it's just a matter of time_

_Before you question what I'm saying, make me justify_

_Every word in every line that does not seem to fit_

_But the meaning's not so important, as long as you mean it_

– _The Automatic_

Three times, Ziyal had said. So, at exactly 1400, Jake pressed the bell three times. This was either a date or a conspiracy, and he wasn't sure which one he found more nerve-racking: the conspiracy, obviously, his rational side shouted, but he didn't entirely believe it. The door took a long time to open and by the time it did, he'd almost forgotten it was supposed to; it took him by surprise and he jumped backwards, almost tripping over his own feet, before chiding himself for being an idiot. Ziyal looked tired and her hair was untidy, but she smiled at him and let him in, then they sat on opposite ends of the couch for several minutes, neither knowing quite what to say or where to look: at the floor, apparently. Ziyal finally sighed.

'So, what are we going to do about Wrightwell?'

'I dunno,' Jake said honestly. 'What if we're wrong? We could get in a load of trouble if he finds out and accuses us of conspiracy... he looks the type,' he muttered. The rulebook type, the type who'd kick you in the shins then yell at you for not standing up straight. Everything that made him really, really glad he wasn't in Starfleet, in short. Ziyal grinned.

'Doesn't he just? It seems he isn't too popular around here, from what I've heard.' A thoughtful frown abruptly replaced the grin, crinkling the half-formed eyeridges and spoon on her forehead.

'Hang on, that's a bit too obvious,' she said slowly. 'If the Dominion were going to have a spy, you'd think it would be a person everyone liked and trusted – someone nobody would suspect... so maybe he's working for someone else? Uh, I'm kind of overcomplicating this, aren't I?' she asked suddenly, probably off his shocked expression.

'You're being too... how do I put this... too Cardassian,' he told her awkwardly. 'Most Starfleet officers, no matter how they felt about their co-workers, wouldn't play traitor in the middle of a war just to get some kind of petty revenge.'

'I know that!' Ziyal snapped. 'I'm just saying, if I were the Dominion and I wanted a spy on DS9, maybe I'd pick someone other than the new guy. But I know what I overheard, and it did not sound like typical Starfleet behaviour. It was more like typical Cardassian behaviour. Trust me, I know all about that,' she said gloomily, and Jake felt a pang of sympathy for her. It must be hard, knowing that half of you was a man responsible for untold amounts of suffering and chaos, and the other half was a woman held by said man under very dubious consent and who would forever be viewed by her own people as a whore and a collaborator. He didn't envy her that.

'I don't know whether it was a power play, a theory, or a real Dominion plot – I didn't hear enough to get the context,' she continued. 'But it happened, and if it is something real we _should_ find out about it. Just in case.'

Jake didn't want to admit he was scared, but he was. The one time he'd had to do anything like this, that time he'd sat in on Weyoun and Dukat's meeting, he'd been so scared he barely managed to get through the meeting without throwing up. And that was on a hostile, occupied station where everyone was an enemy, and all he had to do was figure out who was _more _of an enemy. He didn't have to worry about what would happen if he got it wrong. But if they accused Wrightwell and he turned out innocent, they'd have flung mud on his Starfleet record, possibly screwed up his career, and they'd have made everyone waste time on a pointless investigation when there was so much going on already that was more important. Slander was a crime, even in times of war, and if it went wrong, that would be Jake's career as a journalist out the airlock at the very least.

'I don't know, Ziyal,' and he managed not to falter her name as he'd done every other time recently, which he was vaguely pleased about but didn't have time to contemplate. 'What if he thinks _we're_ the spies? Could look kind of suspicious, us following him around or whatever.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' she said firmly, but something flickered on her face just for a moment, and Jake knew that this would be a dangerous game however they played it, and whoever won. Still, she was used to it, at least. And he'd learn.

And he did learn. Over the next few days, they planned out how they'd keep an eye on Wrightwell without being obvious, and Jake could only marvel at Ziyal's matter-of-fact manner as she tapped into the comm system from the computer in her quarters, coolly hacking into enough layers of subroutine and protocol to view the times, destinations and durations of all the transmissions leaving Ops for the last week. She laughed at his astonishment, and shook her head.

'This is a Cardassian computer, Jake, I'm more at home with it than you'll ever be. Besides, my father and Garak are both good at this sort of thing. You have to be, when you live like they do.'

'You miss them,' he guessed, then wished he hadn't said anything. She hadn't mentioned either of them since Kira left for the mission, and now he'd brought it up again. Insensitive.

'I shouldn't,' she muttered repressively and continued poking at the computer, those sharp blue eyes of hers narrowed in concentration. 'Come on, let's see what these transmissions tell us.'

Nothing, apparently. According to the logs, Wrightwell hadn't sent any personal transmissions from his quarters that week.

'He must have erased them! That proves he's hiding something,' Ziyal exclaimed, 'because I heard him. I know I did.'

'Yeah, but right now it's your word against the computer's, and to be honest I doubt anyone would believe you if you told them he'd messed with the logs. Besides, if you admitted you'd hacked into them, that's already enough to get you in big trouble.'

'You're right,' she mumbled, face falling. 'We need some way of proving it. But how do we do that, without asking anyone else for help?'

Jake just shrugged. He wasn't cut out for this, he knew it. But Ziyal's face lit up, and his heart sank slightly even though he enjoyed her smile.

'Jake! It's so obvious, why didn't I think of it? You're a _journalist! _All you have to do is interview him, and plant a recorder in his quarters while you're there! You've got recorders, right?'

'No way,' he said flatly, heart now sinking a lot further. 'That's crazy. What if he finds it?'

'It's the _only_ way. If we adjust one of your recorders to run on a certain bandwidth, we can set up another one to receive on the same wavelength and listen to it as it's happening. We don't have to worry about unauthorised computer access, because we won't be using the computer at all. Easy!'

'For you, maybe!' he spluttered. 'What the hell am I supposed to interview him about? And how am I supposed to plant a recorder in his quarters when he's sat there staring at me?'

'That's easy too,' Ziyal answered, and the smug grin was pure Dukat. 'I'll make a distraction by ringing the bell then running away, and while his back's turned you can hide it somewhere. As for the interview, well, isn't that your job?'

He couldn't out-argue that grin, so he just sighed and nodded. This was definitely more dangerous than eavesdropping on Weyoun.

They spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening rewiring the little portable recording set Jake used for doing interviews, and ended up with a fairly serviceable transmitter and receiver; Jake was once again amazed at Ziyal's technical knowledge, considering she spent her formative years in a desert with no technology whatsoever – but she only smiled mysteriously, looking eerily like Garak as she did so, and told him nothing. Jake tried to convince himself it was in a good cause but he felt horribly dishonest, and couldn't help thinking that this was _wrong._ The look on Wrightwell's face when he told him about the interview was enough to make him want to abandon the whole thing; the man was beyond delighted that there was someone on the station who didn't dislike him, and Jake felt like a monster for lying to him.

Never mind, he thought gloomily, if nothing comes of it we can just hide all the evidence and pretend it never happened. As long as nobody finds out, nobody will ever know. And Ziyal had persuaded him; he didn't have it in him to say no to her any more, because she'd got under his skin and into his head. Did he want to impress her? However hard he denied it, he knew he did. Stop it, he told himself. This is serious. If Wrightwell really is a spy, he doesn't give a shit about whether people like him or not; he'll just want to get the job done, whatever that is, and get the hell out of here without being found out. So that's what we have to do too.

On the day, the plan worked like a dream; as soon as the door-chime rang more than once in Wrightwell's quarters, the commander was up out of his chair like a shot and looking up and down the corridor. All Jake had to do was fix the thing to the underside of the table using the little sticky pad he'd attached to it, then hit the switch and sit back looking innocent. It was almost _too_ easy.

'I think someone's playing a trick on me,' Wrightwell confessed as he came back. 'I don't seem to be very popular around here, and I can't figure out why. I'm only doing my job, after all.'

'Well, it's up to me to help you out with that, isn't it?' Jake said with an encouraging smile, hating himself for it. 'Give everyone a taste of the real Thomas Wrightwell – the man behind the uniform. I'm sure people will relax a little once they get to know you.'

'Uh... sure,' Wrightwell said uncertainly. 'What d'you want to know about me, then?'

As the interview dragged on, Jake realised why everyone disliked Wrightwell: there _wasn't_ a man behind the uniform. He was a career officer at the expense of everything else, including personality and sense of humour. The only person who was more Starfleety than him was Eddington, and that was only because their former Security officer was secretly a Maquis. This was either a very good act, or Wrightwell was genuinely the dullest person in the universe. Still, he noticed that Wrightwell was rather restless and his eyes kept darting towards the door; if Jake hadn't read the man's service record and learned what a hard-ass he was (active duty on the Cardassian front, successful campaign against the Maquis, and so on) then he'd guess the commander was... afraid.

Afraid of what?

Hopefully the recordings would answer that one. He still felt bad about it, though. Sure, the guy was a pain in the neck, but invading his privacy like this was way below the belt. It's in a good cause, he told himself yet again. And if nothing comes of it, nobody has to know.

* * *

><p>Kira sat on the steps of the old Hebitian museum and tried to calm herself down. She'd managed to stall Madred at their meeting yesterday by claiming she hadn't had enough time to find out much about the dissidents yet, but she knew he wouldn't wait much longer and he'd had a nasty grin on his face when she told him she'd redouble her efforts. Mila had told her not to worry (in fact she'd described Madred as a "jumped-up little twit who couldn't locate his rear end with both hands unless his goons helped him" and several more equally complimentary names) but it was not a comfortable situation to be in. It also didn't help that Garak was who-knows-where and had been for several days; she probably didn't want to know what he was up to. So she was meeting Entek and Damar alone, which would mean fewer arguments but not necessarily less danger. And she was early. Almost Cardassian in her punctuality.<p>

When the hungover, smoggy sun had sunk exactly halfway over the horizon, she went round the corner to the back alley, looked for the red scrawl on an old warehouse door, and knocked softly. It shot open in an instant and Entek all but dragged her into a cavernous space full of dead machinery, collapsed upper flooring and chaotic piles of rubbish. There was a half-hearted banner or two, a few mattresses and some chairs made out of old crates in one corner, and Damar and Rusot were sat over here with their heads close together, muttering over a padd.

'Ghemor,' Damar greeted her brusquely. 'Did anyone see you come in?'

'I don't think so. Is this place safe?'

'Safe as it'll ever be with one of you people around,' Rusot sneered. 'You know, Obsidian, I'm surprised we haven't had the police knocking on our door yet. What's taking you so long?'

'Oh, that'll be happening next week, we're a little busy right now,' she quipped tiredly. Everything about Rusot really put her back up, and she was tense enough without having to deal with his constant sniping. 'Though I'd be happy to clear my schedule and start early in your case.'

Damar laughed, a surprisingly mellow sound, and looked sidelong at her.

'You know, Rusot, I'd watch my step around this one if I were you. So, Ghemor, what news from our _friends_ at the Bureau?'

'No news is good news, they say. I've told Madred I'm still investigating, so I'm going to have to tell him about this place sooner or later or he'll take over the search himself. I suggest you move anything important first chance you get, because as soon as I tell him, he'll organise a raid.'

'What's the point?' Rusot grumbled, banging his hand on the table. 'All this tiptoeing about isn't getting anywhere! You know what I've heard? I've heard that Jarok's ready to defect, and even Legate Turel listens to him. If we could get him on board we'd have half the Third Order on our side, and we could take out the cloning facilities on Korma IV. Isn't that a better use of our time than hiding and skulking?'

'Rusot, we've been over this,' Damar sighed. 'I've spoken to Jarok already and he's willing to commit his own ship and crew – but we don't need ships right now, we need _people._ Anyway, what happened to the stealthy approach? If we start blowing things up again, they'll only find us that much quicker.'

Rusot looked angry, but didn't say anything else. Jarok... Kira remembered him. He'd seemed to get on quite well with Madred, but if he was ready to defect...

'I'd be careful of Jarok, if I were you, Damar,' she said. 'He was the one who picked me up when I came back from the Federation; he could be a plant. And legates are too dangerous to involve. We've got to keep this as quiet as possible until we're a hundred percent ready.'

'I trust Jarok,' Rusot grunted. 'If you don't, that's your lookout. I say we get him in.'

'You could use him to spread the false documents around the fleet,' Kira suggested. 'Once the news breaks, we'll need contacts in every area. But I wouldn't tell him they're false – at least, not yet. If too many people know they're not genuine, we'll lose the impact.'

Even Rusot agreed to that, and Damar looked delighted. As they started to plan out a method of disseminating the information without the authorities finding out, Kira realised with a shock that she was almost _enjoying_ this. Never in her life did she think she'd be teaching Cardassians how to organise a resistance, but Damar was astonishingly willing to learn – and once he caught on, he came up with some startling suggestions. She was still very wary of Rusot; not because she thought he was a traitor, but because he was belligerent and stupid and bull-headedly stubborn, always wanting to fall back on violence and fighting instead of gathering supporters. Somebody like that was a liability, a loose cannon, and if he blew it then they'd all end up dead.

Rusot left early to get back to his ship but Kira stopped him as he made for the door, noticing Damar's quizzical, slightly intrigued look as she did so.

'Rusot, I'd like a word with you.'

'Not now. I'm late enough as it is without _you_ slowing me down.'

'Well that's your problem, because you are not leaving until you've heard me out.'

'Oh, very well,' he sighed. 'But make it fast, I need to be off the planet by midnight.'

'The less you interrupt, the quicker I'll be done.' She leaned forward and stared him hard in the face, keeping her voice soft and dangerous.

'Rusot, if you do _anything_ we haven't agreed on, I'll tell Madred where to find you. Unless you have a serious death wish, you'd better not launch any damn fool attacks on some cloning facility in the back end of nowhere – because if we can't count on you, you're nothing but dead weight, and the Bureau would be doing us a favour if they got rid of you. Is that clear?'

Rusot's black eyes widened and various emotions flickered on his face: shock, indignation and a hint of... anger? Oh Prophets, no, that's _lust_, she thought miserably. That's all I need.

'Perfectly, _Agent Ghemor,_' he hissed. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a transport to catch. Damar, let me know what's happening. You know how to reach me.'

Entek watched the door as he left, then Kira was left alone with Damar, who was looking at her in frank admiration. She turned to him coolly, though inside she was buzzing with nerves.

'I don't mean to usurp your authority,' she told him, taking care to sound slightly apologetic, 'but I'm not at all sure about him. If he tells Jarok too soon, it could ruin everything.'

'Rusot's a useful ally, especially because of his standing in the Sixth Order,' Damar admitted, 'but he has his problems. And you'd do well to keep your distance, Ghemor. He's a dangerous man to have as an enemy.'

'He's got no business being my enemy and still fighting for this cause,' Kira snapped. 'Either he's with us – _all_ of us – or he's with the Dominion. There is no in-between. That goes for everybody in this group, you included.'

'Well, I'm in it to the death,' Damar said fiercely, and Kira did not doubt him. She'd seen eyes like that before. 'And I know Rusot is too,' Damar continued, 'despite his reluctance to listen. He won't let us down. But you're right to come down hard on him, because he's almost as hot-headed as a Bajoran.'

Ah, the familiar sneer. Kira remembered that time in Sisko's office on DS9 when Dukat had made her laugh helplessly with his perfect imitation of that sneer; she had been furious with herself afterwards, but she couldn't help it, it was too funny.

'You know, the Bajorans aren't as stupid as they look,' she said carefully, willing her fists not to clench as they always did whenever she encountered Cardassian racism. 'They managed to beat us with nothing but manpower and luck, after all. We could really use what I learned from them.'

'That's what Dukat used to say,' Damar muttered. 'Then he trusted a Bajoran, and she got him killed.'

'He was the one who got us into this mess in the first place!' Kira retorted, not bothering to keep the venom out of her voice; it was the absolute truth, and Iliana was unlikely to stand up for him in any case given his infamous feud with her father. But she was also seized with a wild desire to laugh, even through her anger. What would Damar do if he found out that the very Bajoran who'd "killed" Dukat was the woman masterminding his rebellion?

'And he was the one who could have got us out again,' Damar said equally hotly. 'He had a plan, Kira ruined it – and he let her, because he was in _love_ with her!' he finished, face twisting in disgust. Kira had to stop herself from gaping; it sounded so strange, blurted out like that. She supposed she must have known, but she hadn't thought about it. And she never would; it was far too complicated and uncomfortable. No. Don't _ever_ think about that.

'He was weak,' she spat, letting Iliana answer do the talking while Nerys was still trying to compose herself. '_Joy is vulnerability,_ everyone knows that. He let sentiment get in his way; we can't make that mistake. You know, the Bajorans fought because they hated us, and every one of them who got killed made the others hate us more. Sure, they loved Bajor, but at the end of the day it was all about hate. And it united them, which is why they beat us.'

'And you _admire_ them for that?' Damar accused her. 'They humiliated us!'

She'd tried hard to keep the pride out of her voice, but maybe not hard enough. There wasn't time to have this discussion, not now; she was too tired and too afraid of blowing her cover, so she kept calm and looked steadily at him.

'I was one of them, Damar. That's difficult to forget, however much I want to. I don't know about you, but I'd rather take advice from Bajorans than carry on like this – and if you can't bring yourself to do that much, the Dominion are going to be here _forever_. Is that what you want?'

'I'll do whatever it takes,' Damar snarled. 'Just don't expect everybody to agree with you.'

She didn't bother answering. Damar's willingness to listen was the exception, rather than the rule, and it was probably driven by his humiliating loss of power after what happened on DS9 – and hatred of Weyoun, who'd fired that shot. Still, hate was hate, and it was enough for now. She'd never change the way Cardassians thought, but she could change what they did with it. At least, that was the plan.

'What's Garak doing?' Damar said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. She shrugged.

'How would I know?'

'Can we trust him?'

'He's got his reasons for hating the Dominion, same as we all do. Right now, that's what matters.'

'Fine. Now, we'd better get moving, if Madred's on your back already. I'll call a meeting of all our contacts and make sure they're still with us, because we can't afford any mistakes when the time comes. In the meantime, you get that information into the archives one way or another.'

Kira nodded. She knew they couldn't delay much longer, but she'd hoped to have more time.

'Be careful,' she said. 'Keep it quiet. And get everybody away from here except a few decoys; if the Bureau come raiding, we don't want them to find too much.'

Here we go, she though grimly as she made her way back to Mila's house. Garak was AWOL, Rusot was a liability, the plan was still in pieces and there was no way she was ready for this.

But it was ready for her, and it wouldn't take no for an answer.


	11. How Did It Come To This?

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews – as you can see, they motivate me to keep writing! As for those of you who've been wondering where Dukat's got to (**E**, I'm looking at you...) then wonder no more. He's back, and he's vicious.

Also, to anyone wondering about the blanked-out stardates – you'll see what I mean – that is because I have honestly no idea what the stardate would be at this point, and I'd rather not guess and show up my woeful ignorance about the workings of the TrekVerse. Just insert whatever numbers sound plausible and go from there, if this sort of thing is important to you.

**A/N Supplemental: loxKardasia, **in response to your very long and detailed review, there is another (equally long and detailed) addendum at the bottom for you. And no, I didn't get the message – but FFN have recently disabled external links on profiles due to excessive spamming. They'll probably fix that soon though.

**WARNING: This chapter contains violence and references to distressing themes.**

**11: HOW DID IT COME TO THIS?**

_And our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

_How did it come to this?_

– _Muse_

This had been the longest week in Dukat's long, complicated and at times utterly nightmarish life, and by the end of it he could almost feel his own sanity crumbling away, hour by agonising hour. He'd paced until his feet hurt. He'd panicked until he couldn't see straight, then repressed the panic until he couldn't think straight. He'd tormented himself endlessly with the grotesque images of dying Cardassians printed on the inside of his eyelids every time he closed them. He'd shouted and cursed at nothing in sheer impotent fury with himself, with the situation, and most of all the fact that he was stuck in this godsforsaken cell and totally helpless when he had to get back to Cardassia and somehow fix the mistake he'd made, he _had_ _to get out of here!_

They were coming for him today, to take him to the penal colony. Escape plan? He'd been over that already. Wait for the guards to turn up, attack them and make a run for it? Hah. No. Throw himself at the forcefield until he passed out, then try to escape from the medical bay as soon as he woke up? Definitely not, however tempting it was to be pointlessly self-destructive. Wait until he'd got to the penal colony, then try to escape? No, dammit, _no! _He felt like a wild sehlat in a cage, forced to watch as carrion stole its food and predators killed its mate and young; Sloan couldn't have invented a better torture if he tried. And the bastard was right, this _was_ his fault. He'd been the one who thought of sending Nerys to Cardassia – in fact, he'd been the one who thought he was being so damn clever by double-crossing the Dominion in the first place, and the one thing he hadn't planned for was that the Dominion were double-crossing him right back. Whyhadn't he seen it? Because he was a blind, stupid fool, that's why. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that you weren't _meant_ to be able to tell a changeling from a real person, but that wasn't the point. He'd made a huge, catastrophic mistake and now Cardassia would pay for it. Again. And so would Nerys. It was like one of the laws of the universe: no matter what he tried to do, no matter how carefully he planned it, everything he gave a damn about ended up being destroyed.

Over my dead body, he thought furiously, leaping up and pacing yet again; he was nearly climbing the walls in frustration, he hadn't slept or eaten in gods only knew how long and his nerves felt like overloaded power lines, the need to escape so strong he could almost see it. Come on, think, _think,_ you idiot, he berated himself; you schemed yourself into this mess, now scheme yourself out again. There has to be a way.

But what was it?

He'd come up with what felt like hundreds of possible plans, though it was probably just the same few running over and over again through his scrambled brain. Most of them were accordingly wild and incoherent, but one or two of them might just work. He wasn't in good physical condition for fighting, but he was wired enough to try out of sheer desperation – and in any case, if he didn't punch someone pretty soon he felt like he'd catch fire. Maybe that was the best idea? Simple, quick and dirty, and if he was fast enough they'd never know what hit them. But two against one wasn't good odds; even if he managed it (and that was a big if) he'd then have to find his way to the hangar without getting caught, not to mention stealing a ship, and they'd all be looking for him...

Too risky, he decided. Trying to escape from the penal colony would take far too long and likely be impossible. But if he waited until he was being transported... _if_ he could manage to get rid of the guards, then he'd already _have_ a ship. True, a Federation ship of unknown size with an unknown number of crew/civilians/other prisoners on board, added to the fact that he didn't know where the hell he was... Again, a lot of ifs, but it would have to do. Right now he'd settle for anything.

He just hoped they came for him soon, before he went totally and utterly crazy in here.

He got his wish: Willetts and another burly guard he'd never seen before arrived within the hour. The new guy bent Dukat's arms behind his back for the handcuffs, almost dislocating his neck-ridges, while Willetts just smirked at him.

'You'll love it on Earth,' he jeered. 'Siberia. Coldest place on the planet that's still inhabited. They say it can reach fifty below in the winter...'

Dukat ignored him; he'd heard about Siberia already, and he had no intention of going there if he could help it. He ignored the pain in his shoulders and neck, too; his arms were twisted awkwardly behind him in a position that no Cardassian could hold for very long, but he couldn't imagine they'd keep him like that for the entire trip. After all, the _saintly_ Federation had rules about causing lasting harm to people, even prisoners. He had no such reservation. He'd enjoy beating the hell out of Willetts as payback for all that "interrogation" over the last month or so, and also purely because the guy was an idiot. This feeling only intensified as Willetts jammed a black bag over his head, blocking out all the light, and the two of them hustled him out of the cell. This wouldn't do; he needed to see what kind of ship they were putting him in before they got there, and the bag didn't smell too good either. He doubted they'd take it off him, but it was worth a try...

'Hey!' he complained. 'I can't breathe in this thing!'

''Fraid you'll just have to put up and shut up, Cardie,' Willetts responded cheerfully, jabbing Dukat in the head with the butt of his phaser. 'We've got orders not to let you be seen leaving here, so the hood only comes off once you're on the shuttle. Come on, keep moving.'

_Dabo, _Dukat thought, grinning in the fusty confines of the bag. A shuttle... that meant two crew at most – one to pilot, one to keep an eye on him – and run-of-the-mill pilots weren't usually much good at physical combat, it wasn't what they were trained for. Shuttlecraft were also one of the few Federation vehicles he knew anything about, which meant controlling it wouldn't be a problem. He might just pull this off if he timed it right. Shuttles weren't too fast, though; warp 1 if he was lucky, and no weapons to speak of. Cardassia was a hell of a long way at those kinds of speeds, even without the inevitable zigzagging, doubling back, hiding and general time-wasting he'd have to do in order to avoid anything the Federation sent after him. Still, things were definitely looking up...

His moment of glee was interrupted by Willetts hauling him round a corner so violently that he tripped and fell on his knees. He gritted his teeth as he struggled upright and continued stumbling along blindly, trying to ignore the guards' laughter. Things _had_ to be looking up, mainly because they couldn't actually get much worse.

He felt rather than saw the hangar around him when they got there; the lower air pressure of a much bigger space than a corridor and the cacophony of transit-related noises made it obvious where he was. Willetts and the other guy dragged him a little further, then he heard the noise of a shuttle door opening and he was roughly shoved inside. He was unable to break his fall with his arms stuck behind his back, and his head bounced off something hard enough to make him see stars. He clenched his pinioned hands into fists as Willetts laughed and yanked the bag off his head, the sudden bright light making him wince and screw up his eyes.

'Slipped over again, huh?' Willetts sniggered. 'We'd better get you sat down, we can't have you falling all over the place when we're moving...'

He undid the handcuffs and Dukat had a split second to appreciate the release in his aching neck before he was forced down into the passenger's chair at the back and his hands cuffed once more, in front of him this time. He smiled over the top of Willetts's head as the big man did up the restraints. Several pounds of metal around his wrists was as good a weapon as any, and two-handed punches had long been a favourite of his. It would hurt, but it would hurt Willetts more, and that was what mattered. The pilot was a skinny little Vulcan who gave him one impassive look then turned back to his console. The guy was probably stronger than he appeared, but Dukat reckoned he could take him. But never mind all that for now. If he shoved his worries about Cardassia and Nerys to the back of his mind then he almost felt cheerful, for the first time in far too long. He relaxed as far as he was able within the restraints, glared at Willetts once more for good measure, suppressed a smirk as the big guy looked away nervously, and waited for the shuttle to start. Things _were _looking up.

An hour later, he was getting twitchy again, not to mention freezing cold; Willetts had made him sit right next to the cooling units, probably deliberately, and his hands and feet were going numb. He'd been listening to the telemetry, in between faking the early signs of space-sickness, and he didn't want to get too close to Terra. But he'd learned that the shuttle _was_ warp-capable, just about, which was better than nothing. Right. Time to act. Luckily enough, they were just starting to go through some turbulence, which would make his excuse for needing to get up all the more plausible. He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye at Willetts, who was sitting side-on to him, and shifted in the restraints, grunting slightly like he was in pain. Willetts didn't react, so he did it again a little more obviously.

'Stop squirming, you,' Willetts said boredly without bothering to turn round.

'I feel ill,' Dukat complained, grateful for the temporary hoarseness in his voice. Willetts shrugged.

'Not my problem. Sit still and shut up.'

'It will be your problem if I'm sick on the floor. I really don't feel good.'

'I don't care. Be quiet.'

As they hit a particularly rough patch of turbulence, Dukat let out a convincing-sounding groan and pressed one hand over his mouth.

'Oh bloody hell... Alright, make it quick,' Willetts grumbled, getting up and unfastening the restraints, yanking Dukat roughly out of his seat and shoving him towards the chemical toilet at the back. _Now,_ Dukat decided and pivoted with the shove, bringing his hands round fast and smashing Willetts in the stomach with the handcuffs as hard as he could. Damn, that felt _good_. The big guy sprawled on the floor, winded, and Dukat seized the phaser out of his belt and trained it on the pilot, who had turned around in shock. He shook his cuffed hands.

'Get these things off me, or I'll shoot.'

'I will not,' the Vulcan answered calmly. Dukat stifled a growl. He'd always hated Vulcans.

'_Take them off or I will shoot you,_' he repeated through clenched teeth. 'It's a simple choice, now decide before I shoot you anyway. I don't have time for this.'

'Your course of action is illogical,' the Vulcan said, still in that infuriatingly serene voice. 'This shuttle has no weapons and they will send a much faster ship after you. Your attempt to escape will not succeed.'

Suddenly noticing the Vulcan's hand groping behind him for the comm panel and cursing himself for getting distracted by the logic spiel, Dukat snarled and shot him anyway. He barely had time to think before Willetts leapt on him with a yell and sent the phaser clattering out of his hands. Willetts weighed a ton and he punched like an angry Nausicaan, but Dukat fought harder than he'd ever fought in his life, even with his hands stuck together in the handcuffs. They rolled around on the floor of the shuttle, kicking, biting, elbowing, anything as long as it was painful – now Willetts was trying to pin him down, he had to reach the phaser, _godsdammit_ where did it go? He couldn't find it, the metal was cutting into his wrists every time he hit Willetts and it hurt like crazy but he wasn't going to give up, he _was not going to – _

A flash of orange light made him recoil, then he looked up in astonishment as he found himself still very much alive. Willetts must have fallen on the phaser and it had gone off; the big man was unmistakeably dead, eyes and mouth wide open. Maybe the Cardassian disbelief in luck wasn't quite right after all, or maybe the gods did still exist. Whatever. He'd won and the shuttle was his. Shaking from the exertion of the fight, Dukat rolled the corpse onto its face so those eyes weren't staring at him. Then he swore. How would he get the damn handcuffs off now? He looked at his wrists, which were bleeding and bruised with scales bent the wrong way. Then he looked at the phaser. If he did this wrong, he'd end up with no hands. The prospect was not pleasant. But then neither was the prospect of trying to fly all the way to Cardassia like this.

He stared down at his hands again, and in his sleep-deprived, full of adrenaline, running-on-empty state, the whole situation was suddenly hilarious; the mirth welled up unstoppably until he was sitting there on the floor of the shuttle with two dead people, laughing until his eyes streamed and his ribs hurt. Once he'd finally calmed down, he took stock of his situation. He had a ship. He had a phaser. He had warp drive. But on the other hand he was _persona non grata, _he was in the middle of Federation space with a hell of a long way to go, there were corpses rolling around the floor and most of all, he had to stop Sloan before the changeling's plan, whatever it was, came to fruition. Things didn't seem quite so funny when he thought of it like that.

Still, first things first, and first thing was getting rid of the damn handcuffs. He eventually managed to free himself, after a fair bit of thought, awkward manoeuvring and no small amount of pain, by wedging the phaser in the crook of one knee and using the toes of his other foot to pull the trigger, while holding the chain of the cuffs over the beam. It was scalding hot and filled the shuttle with the smell of overheated metal, mixing sickeningly with the smell of blood and phaser fire, but he managed to weaken the chain just enough to wrench it apart. The cuffs themselves were still stuck around his wrists but they were no longer chained together, which was a big help. His arms were still bloody and sore underneath, too, but that could wait.

Once he'd altered the shuttle's course, checked thoroughly for any Federation ships and got the engines up to maximum warp, he squinted at the console until he found the environmental systems and turned them up practically as far as they would go. After weeks of being freezing cold, it was glorious to feel properly warm again. He also beamed the corpses out into space (after giving Willetts one last vicious kick), rummaged through the lockers and found rations and an engineer's overall that would do as clean clothes, and even had a perfunctory sort of wash using some water from one of the ration packs. And last of all, he programmed the auto-pilot, set the sensors to their longest range and told the computer to warn him of any changes, then curled up in the pilot's chair to sleep for as long as he could get away with. Cardassia wasn't going to get any closer however much he fretted about it, and he'd be no use to anyone in this kind of state. He may as well take advantage of a few hours' grace, because he probably wouldn't get any later on.

* * *

><p>'This isn't working,' Jake finally grumbled after nearly two days of listening to the feed from the recorder they'd planted in Wrightwell's quarters. Ziyal slowly twisted her head round to look at him, her eyes un-hooding and losing that slightly scary, ultra-focused look that reminded Jake just how Cardassian she was. She just shrugged.<p>

'Give it time,' she said impassively. 'He'll do something sooner or later, and we'll hear him. We can't just leave it.'

He shut his mouth. It had made for uncomfortable listening at times, all those things people do when they think they're alone, and sitting with Ziyal in her quarters for hour upon hour in silence was an intense, slightly claustrophobic experience, undercut with the bizarre soundtrack of Wrightwell's mundane movements – eating, moving around, mumbling to himself, breathing, snoring, and occasionally more intimate bodily functions that Jake wished he hadn't heard. He'd felt his face burn sometimes and quickly stole an embarrassed look at her but she never looked back at him, not that he could see, she just sat there with a drawn-in, fearsome concentration on her face which he knew he could not and perhaps _must_ _not_ break. He'd never seen someone her age sit so still; he certainly couldn't do it. Perhaps it was that time in the desert on that faraway planet with nothing for so long.

He found himself doing more looking than listening, in fact, and his growing fascination with her made an already strange situation just that bit weirder and more awkward, until he felt like he was almost choking on the thickness of the air between them. But he couldn't help himself as he sat there, slightly too close for comfort and yet not close enough; he studied the ornate coil of her shiny, jet-black hair studded with silver pins, the delicate arch of her half-formed ridges disappearing into the collar of her dress, the narrow chain of vertebrae in her strong, slim back as she hunched over the recorder. And on the tip of his tongue were words he couldn't say, in the tips of his fingers was the urge to reach out and touch that arch of neck, that glossy knot of hair, those frail bones – if he could just reach out, if he could just...

'Ziyal,' he blurted, suddenly overwhelmed by it all, but Wrightwell's voice coming through on the little speaker interrupted him. Ziyal motioned urgently to be quiet and he clamped his mouth shut.

'Computer, begin log... First Officer's Personal Log, Stardate [XXXXX.X].'

Jake, still half-dizzy with his own impulses and his aborted attempt to confess them, absently noted that Wrightwell's voice sounded cracked and strained, not his usual clipped diction at all. He sounded like he'd been drinking a lot, and there was a heaviness in his tone that indicated a deeply unhappy man. They both bent closer to the recorder, barely breathing.

'I can't go on like this any more,' Wrightwell said. 'But if I refuse, he'll tell everybody what I've done. All the lies I've told, all the ways in which I've disgraced myself and failed Starfleet. And I can't live with that. I know I should never have let it come to this, but it's too late now. It's too late for everything, except this.'

A deep, unsteady breath. Ziyal's eyes met Jake's, and there was fear in them. This didn't sound good.

'If... if anyone finds this log after... afterwards,' Wrightwell continued brokenly, 'I want them to tell my parents that I'm sorry, and... and that I love them. End log.'

His voice cracked on the last words and Jake suddenly knew what was coming, in an icy-cold blast of realisation that washed away his earlier feelings in one horrible rush. He prayed to every god he'd ever heard of that he was wrong, but he knew. And they were too late to stop it.

'Ziyal, he's – '

A single shot. The sound of a heavy body falling on carpet. Then a deafening, thunderous silence that was somehow worse than the loudest din in the world. Ziyal clapped her hand to her mouth.

'Prophets,' she whispered. 'What have we done?'

Jake just stared at her, the sound of the shot and the falling body echoing around his head endlessly.

'He... he's d-d – '

He couldn't get the word out. Ziyal shook him frantically by the shoulders, her eyes wide and horrified.

'Jake, what are we going to do?' she cried. 'We've got to do something!'

He shut his eyes. This was far worse than anything he saw on Ajilon Prime with Bashir. That was violent, bloody madness, but this... this was a man's lonely, hopeless, infinitely preventable death by his own hand because he could not see another way out of the mess he was in, and sick, gut-churning guilt that they may have contributed to it. They'd thought he was the bad guy, but he was just a guy stuck in the middle of something big and frightening, and Jake hated himself for having the _ignorance_ to think what he did – and as for what he was thinking immediately before it happened, well, that was even worse.

How could they not have seen it? Wrightwell's nervousness in the interview, the way he revealed nothing about his personal life, the way he didn't let anyone get close to him – they had all the pieces and they'd put them together totally wrong. Jake wanted to turn back the clock, but he knew he couldn't. He knew he'd never be able to un-hear that shot, to un-live that experience. He took a deep, shaky breath.

'We've got to tell my dad,' he said unsteadily. 'This has gone way too far.'

Ziyal didn't argue, and as they made their slow, numb way up to Ops, her grip on his hand felt like the only solid thing in the world.

'Jake-o, good to see you! Hello, Ziyal,' Sisko greeted them with a broad smile as they went into his office. 'I'm afraid I'm pretty busy right now, but if you – '

'Dad,' Jake said scratchily. 'Dad, listen. I've got to talk to you for a second. Something's happened... something bad...'

With his father's steady gaze on him and a worried frown replacing the original grin, Jake's throat suddenly closed off and he couldn't get the words out; he hung his head, feeling utterly wretched.

'What is it?' Sisko asked gently. 'Tell me, Jake-o. I won't be mad, I promise.'

'It's Wrightwell,' Ziyal blurted out in a rush, voice shaking. 'He's dead.'

'What!' Sisko exclaimed, almost leaping out of his chair. 'What are you talking about?'

'Security to Sisko,' the comm interrupted in Odo's gravelly tones. Shooting Jake and Ziyal a very suspicious look which made Jake cringe, Sisko hit his combadge.

'Go ahead, Constable.'

'I'm in Commander Wrightwell's quarters, sir. With Dr Bashir. You'd better get down here.'

'On my way,' Sisko said grimly, getting up. 'It sounds like you two had better come with me.'

Thankfully, Bashir and a Bajoran medic had covered the body with a sheet and they were busy carrying it away when Sisko, Jake and Ziyal arrived. Odo was standing by the desk, looking grimly at the phaser which lay on the carpet next to the overturned chair.

'Report,' Sisko barked. Odo looked curiously at Jake and Ziyal for a minute, then shrugged.

'There's not much to report, sir. One of my deputies called me about five minutes ago, saying he'd heard what sounded like a phaser shot coming from somewhere in this corridor. I came down here immediately, thinking to ask the commander if he'd heard anything. He didn't answer the door, so I came in anyway and found him lying there dead with that,' he nudged the phaser with his boot, 'next to his hand. It seems fairly obvious whathappened.'

'Suicide?' Sisko asked slowly. Odo nodded.

'That's what Dr Bashir thinks, though we'll have to wait until he's done the autopsy until we can confirm anything. But I can't see any other reasonable explanation, given the circumstances.'

'My God, _why? _He seemed perfectly fine when he went off-duty this morning!'

'We know,' Ziyal said in a tiny voice. 'We heard... everything. Show them, Jake.'

Limbs feeling heavy as lead, Jake walked over to the table, bent down and unstuck the recorder; it was still on, and he quickly turned it off before showing it to Sisko and Odo.

'Jake, what – ?' Sisko began furiously, but Odo cut him off, looking sternly at Jake and Ziyal.

'I think you'd better explain. Don't leave anything out, no matter how irrelevant you think it is.'

Ziyal told them everything, her voice shaking and thick as she tried to control her tears – about the conversation she'd overheard, their plan, the interview, and finally that last awful log – which she managed to repeat word for word, before breaking down and hiding her face in her hands. Jake stood there, numbly clutching the recorder, feeling worse than he'd ever felt in his life. Sisko laced his hands over his head, letting out a long sigh.

'I...' he started, then shut his eyes for a moment, utterly flabbergasted. 'And you didn't tell anybody? Jake, what the hell were you thinking?'

'We didn't want to make any accusations before we had evidence, but we couldn't just ignore it.'

'Hmph. In my opinion, he was being blackmailed and couldn't deal with it any more,' Odo muttered. 'You left that thing on all the time? Did you keep the recording?'

Jake nodded, and Odo looked at him shrewdly.

'I can't say I condone what you've done, but it may come in handy. I don't think there's much else we can do now, but I'll start a full investigation as soon as I get the results of the post-mortem. This is a much nastier business than I thought, and I'll get to the bottom of it.'

'Thank you, Constable,' Sisko said. Odo nodded and left, taking the phaser with him. Sisko sighed again, looking at Jake and Ziyal with tired, unhappy eyes.

'What you did was wrong,' he said heavily. 'Very wrong. You know that.'

'I know, Dad,' Jake answered. 'I wish we hadn't done it.'

'It was my idea,' Ziyal mumbled through her hands, still crying. 'I made Jake help me with it.'

'Never mind that now,' Sisko told them. 'What's done is done. I'm not for a moment saying I blame you two for his death, but next time, for God's sake _tell me_ if there's something like this going on!'

Jake couldn't look at his father; he stared at his toes, guilt like a solid block in his windpipe. Sisko rested his hand on his son's shoulder and made him look up.

'Promise me, Jake, that you'll never, _ever_ take matters into your own hands like this again.'

'I promise, Dad,' Jake faltered, and he meant it. Sisko nodded.

'Ziyal, I know I can't make you promise, and I'm more than aware that your people do things very differently to us...'

'I'm so sorry,' Ziyal sobbed. 'I didn't know what else to do. And... and I was scared.'

'Next time, come and speak to somebody,' Sisko said, very gently. 'Now, Odo will probably need to question both of you as witnesses, but that won't be for a few days. Until then...'

He looked at them once more, apparently lost for words, then shook his head, absently set the chair back on its feet, and left the room. Ziyal sank down on the chair, then suddenly realised what she was doing and leapt up in horror.

'Prophets, that's where he was sitting when he – oh, this is horrible!' she cried. Jake reached out and put his arm around her, hating that it was all the wrong circumstances in which to do this, and hating himself for thinking about any other circumstances at a time like this. She clung to him.

'Come on,' he said heavily. 'Let's go.'

* * *

><p><strong>Addendum #2 for loxKardasia:<strong>

I am intrigued by your character, but there are a couple of things I would like to point out:

Firstly, why would Garak notknow that Nira was in the Obsidian Order with him? The idea of secret services is that no one _else_ knows who the agents are, but the agents would kind of have to know each other (at least in passing) or things would get way too confusing.

Secondly, you have to bear in mind that inserting an original character is always going to screw up the timeline slightly – you just have to do it in a believable way. That I leave in your capable hands.

In terms of character development, I would also say that both Garak and Nira would be especially leery about having relationships with other agents, as they'd both know all too well that romance often has ulterior motives for people like them. They'd be playing each other off, neither being honest but both more interested than they should be, and both struggling with what the consequences might be if they had to end up betraying each other – only neither of them know that the other feels the same. And they'd still betray each other in a heartbeat, but it would hurt more than it used to. Not that they'd admit it.

And what about Tain and the Tal Shiar's pre-emptive strike on the Founders' planet in The Die is Cast? That practically wiped out the Order. Garak survived, of course, but most of them didn't. Does she survive? Think about how he'd feel if he realised he _wanted_ to be honest with her, just once, but he never got the chance because she was listed as M.I.A./K.I.A.

OTOH, if she did survive they'd kind of _have_ to trust each other, because they had no one else left. And, of course, why would they want to work against each other after that, if they were such an "endangered species?" That's where the whole joy and vulnerability come in: they're horrendously vulnerable, but within that is the joy of knowing that they can trust each other, precisely because there's nobody else. A bit weird/twisted/forced-into-it, but sort of fitting for Cardassians, eh?

Here's a quote which I think you'll find appropriate, not just for Garak, but for pretty much any Cardassian who's struggling with their screwed-up, dysfunctional mentality. It's from the song _Leif Erikson, _by Interpol:

_I had seven faces, thought I knew which one to wear_

_I'm sick of spending these lonely nights training myself not to care_

Definitely re-watch the key Garak episodes: The Wire, Tain two-parter (Die is Cast and the other one), Inferno's Light/Purgatory's Shadow, Pale Moonlight, etc. For inspiration, obviously :P

Good luck!


	12. Like A Bouncing Cigarette

**A/N: ****loxKardasia**, I'm glad you found my ramblings helpful, and if you've got any more questions then do feel free to ask. Actually, now might be an opportune moment to confess to you (and anyone else who's reading my copious footnotes) that I made a slight mistake last time. Lyrics in the previous addendum are actually from _NYC_, not _Leif Erikson_. Same band, same album, just wrote down the wrong song. Sorry for the confusion!

Anyway, thanks to everybody for the reviews/alerts/favourites etc :D

**A/N Supplemental: **I apologise for the constant "split-screening" in this chapter, but I couldn't think of another way to show two different takes on the same events without essentially going over it twice. Let me know if you find it too irritating and I won't do it again. Anyway, here goes...

**12: LIKE A BOUNCING CIGARETTE**

_You're casting opinions at people who need them_

_All sparks will burn out in the end_

_Well be careful, angel, this life is just too long_

_All sparks will burn out in the end_

– _Editors_

The big day had arrived, and Kira felt utterly sick. When she'd told Madred about the decoy headquarters in Second District, he'd grinned like a scaly cat that had got the proverbial cream and made a pompous, long-winded speech about what an asset she was to both Cardassia and the Dominion (no doubt for the benefit of the sensors – _quis custodiet ipsos custodes,_ after all). It reminded her of Dukat's endless monologues, only this one was even worse as Madred didn't even try to be charming or funny about it. She pretended to be listening avidly, but tuned him out so she could concentrate on panicking. Garak was still missing and she had no way of knowing whether Damar and the others had managed to set up the headquarters or not – if Madred sent his people into a room full of nothing, it would look suspicious, but if they'd left too much behind then it could ruin everything. Damar had agreed to only leave the old, obsolete plans for blowing things up, but even that was risky; if the Bureau found said plans and nothing got blown up after all, they might think she had warned the dissidents. Still, Madred didn't seem too fussy about _how_ Kantar en I'las were stopped, only that they were stopped.

'Miss Ghemor?'

'Huh?' she said blankly, suddenly realising that Madred had stopped rambling and was looking expectantly at her, his cold little eyes boring into her face. She shook her head.

'I'm sorry, sir. It's been a long week.'

'Then you'll no doubt appreciate being excused from your work for the rest of the day while I prepare for the raid this evening,' he purred. 'You do look tired; why not go home and relax?'

Damn. That wasn't what she wanted, she had to be _here_. Especially if he wasn't going to be around.

'Oh no, really, I'm fine,' she stammered. 'Besides, don't you need me to help with the raid?'

'I think not, Miss Ghemor. We can't risk anything happening to you. Besides, if any dissidents manage to elude us, for whatever reason...' Kira's heart plummeted as he looked shrewdly at her, 'then we'll need you to track them down for us. They trust you, and if you're part of this raid, they'll cease to do so. One should never tip one's hand too early in this sort of situation, I find.'

Which was, of course, exactly what she'd be doing if anyone caught her digging around in the archives. She might just be able to avoid detection ifshe timed it right, though. She could go back to Tain's old house for a bit, check if Garak was around and see if the dissidents had contacted her again, which would leave enough time for Madred to hopefully go away and start whatever these ominous "preparations" were. Then she'd come back here, give some excuse to the front desk woman about having forgotten something, then bust in and do it as quick as she could. It was risky, but she probably wouldn't get another chance. It had to be now.

'You're right,' she said, keeping her eyes slightly downcast. 'I hadn't realised that. I guess I'm still thinking too much like a Bajoran.'

Madred grunted humourlessly, eyes never leaving her face. She stood up and turned to go.

'Just a minute, Miss Ghemor,' Madred called as she walked to the door. She spun round.

'Yes?'

'Do you know a man named Lesh Murat?'

_Dammit, _don't ask that question, just stop it... Quick, stall him, she thought. Tell him the bare minimum and get the hell out of here.

'Lesh Murat? Hmm... As far as I'm aware, there's someone called Murat involved with the dissident group, but I've only met him once and I don't know his first name,' she said vaguely. 'Do you want me to investigate him?'

'Maybe,' Madred said thoughtfully. 'We'll see what happens at the raid tonight. If we catch him now, we don't need to investigate him, obviously... Oh, and just one last question: what do you know of the whereabouts of Elim Garak?'

Oh shit, this was getting worse and worse. She took a quick breath, hoping it didn't come out too loud or obvious, and shrugged.

'I haven't heard anything about him since before I went to Bajor. Wasn't he exiled to Dee– uh, Terok Nor during the Occupation?' she faltered. Prophets, I almost said DS9 there, she thought grimly. Get a grip, Nerys!

'Yes. Yes, he was,' Madred murmured, apparently unaware of her mistake. 'However, I have reason to believe that he is not there any more, and in fact may be here on Prime, in this very city. After this business with the dissidents is concluded, your next assignment – besides playing double-games with the Federation of course – is to search for Garak. He's a very dangerous man, Miss Ghemor, and if he's here then I want to know about it. Is that clear?'

'Yes sir,' she answered sharply. 'I'll start as soon as all the dissidents have been dealt with.'

'Good. Enjoy your time off, Miss Ghemor. We'll meet tomorrow morning to discuss the next steps.'

Someone was screaming again, behind that door at the end of the corridor through which Kira had never been and never, ever wanted to. The quicker she did what she had to do, the quicker she could get out of this horrible place. Once she'd planted the files, she'd then have to avoid detection for another few days – as well as finding a way to gain at least semi-legitimate access to the archives in order to "stumble across" the information. And once she'd passed it on to Damar's people, there was no way in hell she'd not be suspected. She'd have to get out, and fast. Yet another thing to worry about...

And for Prophets' sakes, where was Garak when she needed him?

'Well, I don't know where he is,' Mila grumbled when Kira voiced her concerns over what she supposed was lunch, though Cardassians seemed to eat at very strange times. The old lady snorted.

'I'm only his _mother, _after all, why would he tell _me_ what he's up to? He always was a paranoid little bastard,' she mused, half fond, half annoyed. Kira looked up from her plate of regova eggs, pickled heaven-knows-what and sour black bread. She'd begun to get used to Cardassian food, though Mila's taspar patties were still one of the worst things she'd ever eaten, and red leaf tea actually wasn't so bad with a spoon or two of whatever the local equivalent of sugar was called. She sighed.

'Mila,' she said slowly, and the other woman turned to look at her intently.

'It's time, isn't it?' she said, apparently reading Kira's mind. 'You know, we really could have used Elim's help with this. Ah well, there's not much we can do about that now.'

Kira grimaced. She didn't particularly want Garak around, but being able to see him was always better than _not_ being able to see him. And he certainly knew more about planting false evidence than she did; the Resistance had never been into this sort of thing. Too Cardassian for their tastes.

'You just do whatever you have to, my dear,' Mila continued. 'I'll swear blind that you were here with me all afternoon, but that's about all I can do. Madred doesn't trust me – nobody in that voles' nest does these days – but he respects me enough to keep his nose out of my business. After all, I know things about that man which could make even a Cardassian's hair curl,' she sneered. Kira shrugged; the less she knew about Madred, the better.

'I'll need to look through the old database so I can figure out what's stored where. The new one was built over the top of it, right?'

'Of course. Why do something for yourself when you can just steal somebody else's work? And they didn't even do a very good job of _that_,' Mila remarked tartly. 'If Tain had survived, he'd keel over and die all over again if he knew that shower of imbeciles were running his Order! You'll be fine, dear. Just take it slowly and don't run any subroutines you're not sure about, that's the safest way.'

Breezy reassurances were somehow not very helpful, but that was just Mila's way: cool and detached, unfazed by anything at all, and quietly snide about everything that life threw at her. Probably that was what nearly fifty years of being housekeeper, secretary and general assistant to one of the most feared men in Cardassian society did to you. Rather her than me, Kira thought.

As she picked her way through the maze of security lockouts, dead ends, strange tangles of subroutines, booby-trapped folders and any number of other pitfalls awaiting the overly eager or inadequately prepared hacker, she considered that the Central Archives database, if it was anything like the Obsidian Order one, would probably be Miles O'Brien's worst nightmare. She could just imagine his narky comments, his curly hair standing on end above a reddened, annoyed face. Probably muttering something along the lines of "bloody Cardies and their bloody technology," she thought wistfully. Prophets, she missed him. She missed all of them, even Quark; at least he knew about gaining illicit access to computer systems...

'How are you doing?' Mila called from the other room, where she was doing goodness only knows what – more cooking, apparently, judging from the acrid stink of burning meat wafting through the house.

'Almost there,' Kira called back distractedly, then swore and backtracked further into the "safe" part of the database as she almost triggered yet another security protocol. While this version of the archive wasn't actually connected to anything any more, she was trying to work as if she was in the live system, because she'd only have once chance when she did it for real. If she hadn't been able to look at the database before she went in, she'd have been caught a dozen times by now. Finally managing to figure out the algorithm that unscrambled the top level security codes, she smiled grimly. That had taken her... an hour or so? That was far too long, she'd have about fifteen minutes at most. She definitely needed more practice, but that would take time that she didn't have.

'What are you going to do afterwards?' Mila enquired casually, coming in and leaning over Kira's shoulder. 'Will you spread the stuff around somehow, or just leave it in there and see how much of a stink it kicks up?'

'Leave it for a day or so, I guess, then pass it on to, uh, _you know who_,' Kira answered slowly. In truth she'd had so much else to focus on that she hadn't really given it much thought; besides, this was Garak's part of the plan, not hers. Which made her wonder yet again: _where the hell was he?_

'I wouldn't do too much, if I were you,' Mila remarked. 'Never underestimate the power of rumour around here, Iliana. They say a lie can run around the world before the truth has got its boots on – and this lie is a very fast runner indeed...'

'What, you mean they'll get wind of it anyway?'

'Well, yes. If you were them, wouldn't you be keeping your ear to the ground?'

'Mila, I _am_ their ear to the ground. Which is why I want to pass the stuff on quickly and get the hell out before they start investigating.'

'They'll be investigating you anyway, dear, if you're the agent involved with them. It just depends how long you want to keep your standing in the Bureau, doesn't it? Also, that's the first place they'll look for you if you vanish, and if they find you, they'll find everyone else too. What you've planned may have worked on Bajor,' Mila said kindly as Kira bit her lip and grimaced, 'but it won't work here. You can't lose face, or everyone will know something's up...'

She was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and both women whipped round to face Garak, who was stumbling in with a barrow loaded with crates; silent Entek followed him, similarly burdened.

'Thanks for bothering to tell me you were gonna disappear for days!' Kira spat at Garak, who dumped his barrow in the corner and brushed back his hair, grinning at her.

'Ah, but why spoil the surprise? I think you'll like this one, Miss Ghemor,' he said cheerfully, patting one of the crates. 'Entek and I have been very busy.'

'Oh really, must you leave all those dirty old boxes there?' Mila scolded. 'I've just swept the floor!'

'It's only temporary. By the way, Miss Ghemor,' Garak said to Kira, no longer smiling, '_our mutual friend_ says we have to wait another day. There's been some sort of mix-up with the Sixth Order's redeployments and they're now landing tomorrow morning instead. All these convoluted military logistics, I don't know,' he sniffed. Kira shook her head. _What the hell?_

'No!' she snapped. 'It has to be today. Because of what's happening tonight.'

'But it can't be today,' Garak said, plainly not realising what she meant. 'Half of them aren't even here, it would be utterly pointless to do it now. We have to wait.'

Prophets, this is turning into a nightmare, Kira thought. All we need now is for Madred to come busting in here and catch us at it. Oh, and Weyoun as well, just to wrap things up nicely. She wanted out, she'd had enough.

'Looks like you've got yourselves a bit of a problem,' Mila remarked grimly to Garak and Entek. 'You two had better get over there right away and talk to him. You all know Iliana can't wait any longer on her end,' she said hotly, 'so the rest of you will just have to get your act together!'

'Well, that's really rather inconvenient,' Garak sighed. 'I thought we'd discussed all this?'

'And you weren't at the last meeting, so you missed all the important bits!' Kira retorted, her voice going shrill from panic. 'I couldn't stall any longer so I told Madred about Second District and he's organising a raiding party tonight. That's why I have to do it _today,_ when he's not around!'

'Look, we'll sort it out,' Entek interjected simply. 'We'll contact you soon. Be ready.'

The two of them hurried out, leaving Kira white-knuckled and pacing, and Mila shaking her head sadly, either at the state of the floor or the state their plan was in. Either way, this was not good.

* * *

><p>Damar was similarly agitated. He'd been pacing the floor of the safe-house for hours, ever since he'd received a hurried communiqué from Rusot about priority orders not allowing them to land until 0600 tomorrow. If he was really suspicious, he'd think that someone was deliberately screwing with the timing so they'd be forced to scramble around for contingency plans, running the risk of someone messing up and blowing the whole thing. He shoved the thought out of mind; they had enough problems already without adding rampant paranoia to the list. As soon as Entek and Garak had showed up with what looked like an entire shipment of rifles from gods-knew-where, he'd sent them straight back to Iliana with the news, and now he just had to hope she'd got the message.<p>

He didn't know why he was worried about her; she was trained for this sort of thing, wasn't she? He'd be better off worrying about everyone else, who wasn't. Including himself. This was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he'd originally planned... though it wasn't exactly him who'd planned all this, was it? Dukat had been the one with the big ideas, but he'd gone and thrown it all away – for a Bajoran woman who caused him nothing but trouble, Damar thought disgustedly. Not for the first time in recent months, he felt an almost blinding resentment towards his former mentor. How _dare _he put his personal feelings ahead of Cardassia's safety and leave them all in this mess? When Dukat had first told him about the alliance with the Dominion, Damar had thought him a genius. And when the idea of double-crossing the Founders came to light amongst the indignity of being a Dominion conquest, the feeling resurged even stronger – he'd believed that if anyone could get Cardassia through this and still come out on top, it was Dukat. Now, though, he felt only disgust and shame at ever associating with him at all. What must people think of him, being the right hand (and inevitable whipping boy when it all went wrong) of a man who did that? It was _embarrassing_.

Still, he had not done the same, and that was something he could be proud of. As soon as the panicked retreat from Terok Nor had started, he had fired off a blunt one-line message to his wife telling her to go and not come back, because the fleet were returning in disgrace and it would most likely be his head on a plate for it. And she – like the sensible, rational Cardassian that she was – had promptly taken herself and their four-year-old son off to Lissepia without a backward glance. Damar knew he may not live long enough to see his little boy grow up, but he accepted it because _that was what you did_. You put the State first and made whatever sacrifices you had to, however painful they were. And you did it for your son. For all your sons.

You did not ruin everything just because you were stupid enough to fall in love with your enemy.

He sighed. Thinking like this would get him nowhere. Come on, Ghemor, tell me you've got the message. Come on. Don't mess this up, not now, not when we're so close...

'We've got trouble, Damar,' Entek announced as he burst in with Garak close behind him. Damar wheeled round to face them.

'Why? What's going on?'

'Madred,' Entek said grimly. 'He's raiding Second District today, and Iliana has to get into the archives while he's not around. She can't wait until tomorrow.'

'Which obviously makes things very awkward in terms of Rusot and his people,' Garak finished for him. 'It's a shame, I thought we'd have much more time than this...'

'A shame? Everything's falling apart at the seams and you call it a _shame_?' Damar spat at Garak. 'You're up to your neck in this just like the rest of us, you know, so don't think you can just sneak off when the going gets tough!'

'Believe me, I haven't forgotten just how deeply I am mired in this mess,' Garak answered calmly. 'But shouting at me won't answer the question of what we're going to do about it.'

Damar shook his head, frustrated. Rusot's links in the Sixth Order were a good proportion of their people in the military and leaving them out of the loop could be disastrous, but he didn't see another way of doing it; they weren't here and there was no more time.

'We'll have to call the meeting right now, but we can't risk communicating with Rusot. I'll have to get in touch with him later. Entek, get everyone who's available to come here, and tell them to _be careful. _If the Bureau are on the prowl, we can't have any mistakes.'

Entek nodded once, went over the computer and started tapping away hurriedly. Damar thanked the gods he didn't believe in that Entek was still here, even if Rusot wasn't. He didn't know the first thing about Entek, apart from that some kind of misfortune had befallen him at the hands of the Dominion and he wanted them gone as much as anybody, but the silent man was possibly the only one Damar truly felt he could rely on. He turned to Garak.

'Tell Ghemor to go ahead, then you'd better lay low for a while. This business with the Sixth Order doesn't smell right, and we'll need both of you once the information comes out.'

'I'm so glad you think my contributions are worthwhile,' Garak sneered. 'Is there anything else you want me to do, besides being some sort of errand boy?'

'Garak, shut up and get on with it,' Damar gritted. 'We're here to fight the Dominion, not each other.'

Garak simply rolled his eyes and left. Damar stared at the empty space where he'd been standing for a minute or two, then went back to pacing, his nerves jangling horribly. He had the speech of a lifetime to give much sooner than he'd anticipated, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He scowled once more as he thought of Dukat and his easy way with words; that man could pull a speech out of thin air in five minutes and still make it sound like a grandiloquent masterpiece. _Bastard._

* * *

><p>'Agent Ghemor,' the front desk greeted Kira frostily as she arrived, desperately trying to keep herself calm and under control. 'I thought you were off duty for the rest of the day?'<p>

'Gul Madred just contacted me asking for information about the raid tonight, and I have to get back to him as soon as possible. I'll need to get into the main archives to cross-check a few facts.'

'I can't let you in there, you don't have clearance,' the woman said automatically. Kira snorted.

'I know that, and so does Madred!' she snapped. 'But if the mission fails because I couldn't get this information to him in time, I'll be telling him the reason why... and I doubt he'll be pleased.'

That did the trick; the woman looked furious and shot up from her desk, obviously realising her bluff had been called.

'Very well. But I'll be calling him to check.'

Kira blenched under her scales, but shrugged and followed. Too late now; she'd just have to roll with it and hope Madred was too busy to answer.

'You want to question his authority? Huh, well, your funeral,' she said, willing her voice not to wobble. 'But I wouldn't if I were you. This dissident stuff has put him in a really filthy mood, and making him repeat instructions that were perfectly clear the first time won't do you any favours.'

She saw the receptionist's neck stiffen in trepidation as the forcefield over the door to the archive was deactivated, and couldn't avoid a grim smile.

'I'm sure you know better than me, Agent Ghemor,' the lady sneered. 'I was just doing my job. And if he asks me, I'll tell him what you said.'

Ah, bluff and counter-bluff. Dukat would love this, Kira thought sourly. Then she shoved all thoughts of him firmly out of her head, and cocked an eyeridge at the obstructive receptionist.

'Fine, you do that. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do.'

She could feel the hateful glare on her back as the woman's footsteps clacked away down the corridor, but she paid it no mind; instead she went into the archives, shut the door carefully and leaned against it for just a second. Her heart was racing, she was cold despite the sticky heat of the dark room, and she knew there were sensors in here somewhere, but never mind. With any luck, the receptionist would let it go. Prophets, if you can still hear me in this hellhole, she prayed as she crept over to the computer mainframe, I could really use a miracle right about now.

The Prophets seemed to be listening, for once, because she managed it. Just. It was a sweaty, hectic nightmare of nerves and passwords and shaking hands and tortuous programming and constantly checking over her shoulder, and she was so wound up that she nearly screamed when she heard footsteps outside the room, but nobody came in. She finally backed out of the system, checked it over once more – yes, there it was, sitting in the archive plain as the nose on her face. She'd done it. Half her mission was complete.

Unfortunately, that was probably the easy half.

Almost giddy with relief, she quickly erased her traces and logged off, scattered a few padds and data rods about to make it look like she'd been researching, then stood up on shaking legs and headed for the door. As she closed it quietly behind her, a heavy tread at the far end of the corridor made her whip round. Her heart leapt into her throat.

Madred.

'Miss Ghemor, what are you doing here?'

'I was... researching some figures. To alter and send off to Starfleet.'

'Were you, indeed?' he remarked with a raised eyeridge. 'I thought you were off duty?'

'I... needed to check something,' she finished lamely. She was sure he could hear her heart beating, it seemed so loud in her own ears. She tried not to fidget with the data rods of evidence in her pocket, imagining his eyes being able to see right through the cloth of her dress, through her hand, through the rod itself, right to its contents. Don't be ridiculous. She forced herself to meet his gaze.

'I was not aware you were security-cleared to access the central archives mainframe,' he said softly, a very unpleasant smile creeping over the corner of his mouth. Prophets, he knows, Kira thought frantically. He knows what I've done. He must do.

'I'm sorry, sir, but it was urgent. Starfleet Intelligence have been trying to contact me for days now, ever since before the Second District investigation. I couldn't ignore it any longer, especially when they still think I haven't found the dissidents yet.'

'I see... ' Madred mused, and for a second she thought she'd got away with it. Then he stepped closer.

'Miss Ghemor, what did we discuss about transparency when you met with Weyoun?' he said silkily. 'I think that when you come in tomorrow, you'd better show me this report you're sending to Starfleet. Just so I can be sure that nothing... _untoward_ is happening.'

'Understood, sir,' she managed to answer. His eyes were still on her and he was standing way too close, almost pressing her against the wall.

'Tread carefully, Miss Ghemor,' he murmured. 'Nobody is indispensable, after all...'

He stood back and let her pass him, and she managed not to start running until she got outside.

* * *

><p>The headquarters was more crowded than Damar had ever seen it, with faces both familiar and new, and everybody who was jammed in around the table, sitting on the stacks of crates and cases hastily arranged in rows, or even just leaning on the walls, had that hard, fierce look in their eyes that he recognised from the mirror. They all knew why they were here. And, more importantly, they <em>believed<em> in why they were here. It was time. He'd sent Entek to check whether Ghemor and Garak were safe somewhere, but he'd heard nothing yet. She must have done it by now.

He stood up and left the little back room where he'd been waiting for the last hour as people arrived, and walked into the main hall. It smelt of bodies and nervousness, and as everybody's eyes turned to him, he felt a rush of pride. They were here because they believed he, Corat Damar, could save Cardassia from the Dominion.

And he wasn't going to let them down.

He was just about to start speaking when Entek came rushing in and shoved a pair of data rods into his hand. Damar smiled. She'd done it.

'Are they safe?' he asked Entek quietly.

'Mila's hiding them. Ghemor says Madred caught her coming out of there, so she can't go back to the Bureau. She says tell them now.'

Well, Damar thought, here goes. The biggest lie he's ever told. Still, anyone who was anyone on Cardassia knew that the truth was only a tool to supplement a point of view. And this point of view was worth any lie in the world.

'Comrades,' he announced loudly, 'I am here today with some news that will shock and disgust each and every one of you. The Dominion have been making fools of us for over a year now, and this time they have gone too far!'

He put the data rods into the computer and loaded them up, and the old monitor screen ripped out of a warship burst into life on the back wall, showing the evidence in all its stark, black-and-white glory. If Damar hadn't known already, he'd have been as astonished as the crowd who were reading it – jaws dropping, eyes wide, whispering angrily to their neighbours. Whoever had created these documents was _good. _And if it was Ghemor herself, then he was even more impressed.

'Some of you may have heard that the spy Iliana Ghemor has recently returned to Cardassia. This is true. What you may not have heard is that she is also one of us. Thanks to her, we now know the truth of what the Dominion is planning for Cardassia.'

He gestured at the display, aware of all the eyes following his hand. Oh, this was power, he thought dizzily. The hell with orders and fleets and legates and guls, Cardassia's power was its people.

'Some of you will be asking yourselves, not without reason, what business I have here – me, the man who stood beside the late Gul Dukat as he negotiated the original alliance with the Dominion a year ago. Well, my answer is this: that alliance did not involve being offered to _animals_ like the Breen and the Tzenkethi as if we are nothing more than _property!'_

He spat the last word out as if it tasted bad, and a swell of affirmative noise rushed at him from the floor. He turned to face them all, standing broadside-on and distractedly realising that if anyone wanted to assassinate him now, they'd have the ideal target. He didn't care; it might even make people angrier, if the estimation of how many sympathisers they had was anywhere near accurate. You did what you had to, after all.

'And let me tell you, comrades, I would not have stood for this if I had been allowed to take over as your leader after Dukat's death, unlike our _dear _Legate Broca!'

That was an easy shot. Broca had been promoted solely on his willingness to be totally controlled by Weyoun, and before he'd been given the title of Legate, virtually nobody had heard of him. But a shot was a shot, and he'd take as many as he needed to.

'The Dominion have lied to us, they have entirely failed to help us defeat the Federation as they promised, and they have humiliated us in front of the entire Alpha Quadrant! Our path is clear, comrades! We must not stand for this any longer!' he shouted, and the crowd shouted right back at him. He had them now, and it was glorious. Now, here we go...

'Your duty as Cardassian citizens is to ensure that everybody learns the truth, because _education is power_. Spread the word amongst your families and friends, and when the time is right we shall show the Dominion exactly who we are. And be careful, comrades. The Dominion are currently unaware that we know their plans, and we must keep it that way. For Cardassia's sake.'

Another shout of approval. Damar smiled. The ball was rolling now, and all they had to do was keep up.


	13. Running With Your Eyes Closed

**A/N: loxKardasia, **In terms of my "Cardassian genius," (cue sniggering from the peanut gallery) there is another note at the bottom for you which I hope you will find interesting and helpful but by no means definitive.

**A/N Supplemental: **Thanks for the reviews and stuff, everyone. This story is getting properly complicated now and I don't mind admitting that I'm finding it hard to keep track of everything. If anyone notices any plot holes, grammar/spelling mistakes or anything else that's clearly me being stupid, then please do let me know in the form of a review...

**13: RUNNING WITH YOUR EYES CLOSED**

_It doesn't seem like you mean it_

_I don't believe that you believe it_

_And it feels like running with your eyes closed_

_If you forget what you're supposed to be_

– _The Automatic_

'I can't go back,' Kira insisted for the umpteenth time that night. She and Garak were holed up in the cellar of Mila's house while she kept them informed of what was happening on the news broadcasts. So far there wasn't anything, but even so, she knew that going back to the Bureau after Madred had caught her would be suicide. She didn't have the ability to lie her way out of it, and if she went back she might as well just give herself up right then and there. Garak raised an eyeridge at her, looking at her out of his normal blue eyes. He'd given up on the disguise now the "Lesh Murat" cover was blown, and Kira was somewhat relieved to see his own face again. It was one less thing to find disconcerting, at any rate.

'Believe me, your absence would be twice as suspicious,' Garak told her. 'You claimed to be writing a bogus report to send to Starfleet, yes? Well, why not write a real bogus report?'

'A _real bogus report?_ Hah!' she scoffed. 'That's complicated even by Cardassian standards!'

'Yes, it does sound slightly ridiculous when you put it like that,' Garak remarked dryly. 'But I'm serious. Surely Sloan and the others are expecting information from you?'

'Madred told me to concentrate on the dissidents first. I haven't even been granted access to the military databases yet, and he knows that – which is why I _can't _go back!' she exclaimed. Why was everyone insisting on her returning to the Bureau? Did they _want _to get her killed or something?

'A slight excess of zeal is much easier to overlook than a sudden disappearance,' Garak continued, waving a finger annoyingly at her. 'When they find the material, they'll instantly link it to your absence and start tearing the place apart to find you, no two ways about it. Whereas if you show Madred proof that you really were writing to Starfleet, he'll be far less likely to suspect you, and he'll tear the place apart looking for other people instead.'

'There's no point, Garak, they're all going to know it was me,' she snapped. 'You should have seen Madred's face, he _knew_ I was lying. He practically told me as much! If I just go waltzing back in there, they'll have me strung up on the nearest tree before you can say Not Guilty. And yes, I _am _aware that no such phrase exists around here,' she hissed as he opened his mouth. Prophets, she hated being trapped like this! Stuck in this damp cellar for hours on end, not knowing what was happening, it grated on her nerves until she was about ready to hit something. Garak's attempts at making conversation weren't helping much, either.

'By the way,' she added sourly, 'did I tell you? Madred suspects you're here. He was asking me about "Lesh Murat," and he also seemed to know that you're not on Deep Space Nine any more. So before you lecture _me _about being careless...!'

'Oh no, I wasn't lecturing you,' Garak said mildly. 'I was actually trying to help, believe it or not. And I did wonder when the Bureau would start investigating "Lesh Murat." I suppose it was appropriating all those rifles from the Second Order depot that caught their eye...'

Kira thought back to the boxes Garak and Entek had brought round earlier; they were now sitting down here in the cellar, all stamped with "Property of Second Order, Authorised Personnel Only." She hadn't looked inside, but she'd figured they must be weapons of some kind.

'Why, aren't you _authorised personnel?'_

'Unfortunately, Murat's credentials only go so far and the depot quartermaster was rather unhelpful,' Garak said airily, 'so I had to acquire them by... less official means, let's say.'

'You mean you stole them.'

'Well, yes. And I knew it was only a matter of time before someone at the Bureau got wind of an entire regiment's weapons simply disappearing from a locked room.'

Kira smiled a little at the idea of a crowd of soldiers piling into the weapons locker to find nothing but empty racks and an IOU note signed by a man who didn't exist. Garak shrugged and continued:

'Still, if we're going to go through with this mad revolution, we should at least be well-equipped. And while I have fond visions of the current administration simply collapsing under the weight of the people's righteous anger, I fear that the reality may contain rather a lot of fighting...'

Kira snorted. Being outnumbered, outgunned and outmanoeuvred, desperate, savage little battles in alleyways and cellars and caves with stolen equipment and too few people – knowing that your back was pressed so hard against the wall that your ass was practically coming through the other side – now that was something she didknow about. And strangely enough, she was almost looking forward to it. It was messy and violent and horribly dangerous, but it was clear-cut. You knew the other side wanted to kill you and you knew you wanted to kill them, simple as that. None of this tortuous sneaking about and lying and pretending to be something you weren't. Beyond pretending to be Iliana, that is. The Cardassians might be ready for a revolt, but they probably weren't ready for that revolt to be led by a Bajoran. Old habits die hard, after all.

'Mila's late,' Garak remarked quietly. 'She said she'd come down every hour. I hope she's alright.'

As if she'd heard them, Mila came scurrying down the stairs as fast as her old legs would carry her, obviously bursting to tell them something.

'Iliana, you made the headlines, it's all come out!' she exclaimed. 'They're saying the evidence is a plot cooked up by dissidents and Federation spies, and anyone caught with a copy of it is in big trouble. They also said that you're a traitor and anyone who sees you or knows where you are should contact the authorities immediately.'

'Well, there's gonna be a lot of unfortunate women in those cells who just happen to look like me,' Kira muttered. At last, some news. 'Honestly! Don't they know anything?Forbidding people from reading that evidence is the best way of making sure that _everyone_ reads it!'

'That may be true on Bajor,' Garak said darkly, 'but around here, that's not just an idle threat. We'd better be careful. If this goes wrong and costs too many lives, we'll lose support. People will start to think it's a plot to destroy Cardassia, not save it.'

'No revolution is risk-free,' Kira argued. 'During the Resistance hundreds of people died every day, but did we give up? Did we hell! It only made us fight harder.'

'I'm sure it did, but I must remind you that you're only saying that because you're still alive to say it,' Garak pointed out. Kira's temper suddenly flared, and she shot off her seat and bent close to him.

'What's your point, Garak?' she snarled. 'Isn't the end always worth the means for you people? Isn't that why you'll stoop to any level to get things done?'

'The end is usually the continued existence of as many Cardassians as possible,' Garak answered coolly. 'Which is why we generally don't have revolutions.'

'Before you came along, neither did we. But we learned, and so can you,' Kira snapped. She knew she wasn't helping, but she didn't care. Mila shook her head.

'Oh, honestly!' she sighed. 'If I didn't know better, I'd think there was some sort of romance going on between the pair of you, the amount you bicker!'

Garak and Kira looked at each other in horror, then Kira wondered what Mila meant by "if I didn't know better." Hopefully that was referring to Garak. Mila knew way too much about her as it was, without personal details being thrown around as well.

'Mila, please, I'd rather not talk about that right now,' Garak said, his tone of voice as genteel and flippant as always, but there was something a little tight about his eyes. She didn't know what he was hiding, but actual visible evidence that he had anything to hide at all was not his usual style. Whatever it was, it must be a pretty big secret. Still, it wasn't her business and she didn't need to know, certainly not now anyway.

'Was there anything in the news bulletin about Lesh Murat?' Garak asked, obviously trying to change the subject. Mila shrugged.

'Only a sentence or two about a mysterious theft at the Second Order's depot and a call for anyone who knows anything about it to come forwards. Relying on the _public_ for information! It's shameful! That _never_ would have happened in Tain's day,' she said disgustedly. Garak nodded.

'Apparently the fact that the vast majority of people are not trained intelligence officers and just want to contribute their two leks has no bearing on the reliability of the evidence any more,' he sneered. 'Things certainly have gone downhill. I'm almost tempted to go out and see how long it takes them to find me with all those silly rumours flying about...'

'I wouldn't show my face if I were you,' Mila answered. 'You'll be safe down here for a few days, and by then they'll have caught some poor fool who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

Kira tried not to groan. She'd only been down here for a couple of hours and already it felt like a lifetime. Several days would be a positive eternity. She knew she'd never been good at waiting, especially without any information, and those endless weeks holed up in caves during the winters in Dakhur had nearly driven her mad – but at least then she had her Resistance comrades for company and they were all in it together. Now she and Garak were cut off from the rest of the dissidents, and they were relying solely on a woman who'd made a living out of lies, treachery and backstabbing. For all she knew, Mila could be in cahoots with Madred and this cellar was a trap that they'd run right into. As the old lady went up the stairs and out of sight, Kira reflected on this, and found that it was the worst part of all: she really had no way of knowing. You never could tell with Cardassians. And while she knew that Mila loved her son, that didn't mean she wouldn't betray him.

* * *

><p>Kira passed a restless, uncomfortable night in the cellar, kept awake hour after hour by the airless heat and the constant irritating hum of an ancient cooling unit in the corner. Garak, thankfully, kept quiet and went to sleep leaning against a pile of crates. They'd both liberated rifles from the stash, but all the power cells were at Damar's headquarters so they'd only get a couple of shots each from the internal reservoirs, if that. Unlike the Federation, the Cardassians had apparently never figured out how to stop the power cells from overloading when they were left in the phaser for extended periods, so they were never stored anywhere near each other, but even if she only got one shot she'd still rather have a Cardassian rifle than a Federation one. Trust the Federation to design a weapon so fancy and complicated that you needed special training to operate it, she thought bitterly as she sat there, bored and hot and wishing more than anything she could just get out of this Prophets-forsaken cellar and <em>do <em>something. She hadn't wanted to come here at all, but now she was here and involved in things she found herself feeling bizarrely rejected by this forced isolation, and even more bizarrely jealous of Damar and Entek, who were probably planning things out right now; cell formations, meeting points, codewords, escape routes – that was her world, that was what she knew. Better than any of them. And yet here she was, stuck in this stupid hole and unable to do anything while they were out there and had no idea what they were doing. It _rankled._

This is all your fault, Dukat, she thought grumpily. If you hadn't been such a Prophets-damned idiot about needing to outsmart the Dominion in some massively convoluted plot, none of this would have happened. But then he wouldn't have done anything else, would he? He was much too proud and much too dishonest to side with the Federation outright, because he couldn't twist their arms into anything if he did that, but after seeing Kelrabi and those awful outer districts full of starving, dirty refugees, even she could understand why he couldn't just sit there and do nothing. Oh, but it was beyond strange, being surrounded by her old enemies, and knowing that those old enemies were every bit as desperate and angry and downtrodden as Bajorans during the Occupation. She could feel it; this was a society that were on the verge of exploding, and she'd just lit the touch paper.

Trouble with explosions, though, was that they were often much more destructive than they should be, regardless of how carefully you tried to regulate and control them. Might as well try to put a tornado on a leash. At this point, the explosion could go either way, and Damar and his people needed her to help direct it, because she'd been there before. And while her own people had not found it easy to change from farmers, monks and scholars to fighters, they had no problem hating the oppressors who ruled their lives. But the Cardassians, most of whom couldn't remember a time that they weren't fighting some alien race or other, would find it even harder to hate the State they were brought up to revere like a god.

But they'd have to learn, or the explosion would become an implosion instead.

Mila came down early next morning, startling Kira out of an uneasy doze in which she'd dreamed the walls were pressing in on her. She opened her eyes to find that she'd fallen between two stacks of crates in her sleep and her body was jammed uncomfortably in the narrow gap. She dug herself out, stiff-shouldered and sore, and greeted Mila, who'd brought them tea.

'Any news?'

'Oh, same as last night. Only now they want information about the dissidents too; evidently Madred didn't find what he was looking for in Second District. Nothing about all that sabotage Damar's people had planned, though...'

'How could he know we're not going to do that?' Kira asked suspiciously. Not for the first time, she wondered if someone was selling them out somewhere down the line; Madred seemed to have an uncanny ability to make shots in the dark really hit home, which led her to think that maybe they weren't quite as much in the dark as they should be. But who was it? One of Damar's men? Mila? Garak? Dear Prophets, Sloan and Starfleet Intelligence? No, this is ridiculous, she told herself. You've got enough enemies already without imagining more.

'I guess it was a little obvious, leaving all those plans lying around like that,' Mila said gently. 'Still, it was worth a try.'

'Any news from Entek?' Garak enquired, yawning and stretching. 'Have the Sixth Order landed?'

'How would I know? And no, nothing from anyone else. Listen, I'm going out for a couple of hours to do some shopping and see what the gossip-mongers at the markets are saying,' Mila told them. 'I wouldn't venture far, if I were you; this place is undoubtedly being watched by now, and Madred's only stayed away from here because it would look bad if he was caught mistreating an old lady. So if you do go upstairs, stay out of sight, won't you? I shouldn't be too long.'

* * *

><p>Kira had just got out of the shower when she heard the noise of the door being broken down. Cursing, she threw her clothes on in a panic, then realised she'd left the rifle downstairs. The only thing she could find that was remotely weapon-like was one of her hairpins, and if they were armed with rifles a hairpin would be little more than a joke. They were cornered in this house like rats in a trap. Though the Bureau people may not know about the cellar; the door to it was hidden behind a fake cupboard, and if she and Garak stayed quiet down there they might just miss it entirely. Ifshe could get down there, that is. If they found her up here she was done for.<p>

She couldn't get downstairs because that went right past the front door, so she wiped the moisture from the walls of the shower as best she could, threw the towel in the clothes washer, then opened the window and lowered herself carefully onto the garden wall, her makeshift weapon clenched between her teeth. It would look a bit odd – nobody left windows open in Lakat because the air was so smoggy and polluted – but that couldn't be helped, and it was better than being caught up there. She just hoped none of the neighbours were watching, though raids by the Bureau usually gathered quite an audience, usually of people thankful it wasn't happening to them. Never mind; as long as she could get to the cellar without being seen, they might get away with it. She crept across the garden, thanking the Prophets that it had rained last night and the earth was soft enough to deaden her footsteps, and reached for the outside door to the cellar – which flew open in her face, knocking her off her feet as Garak rushed out, a phaser shot ricocheting over his head.

'Come on,' he hissed, dragging her upright. They legged it down the garden and leapt over the wall amid a barrage of shots, Kira stumbling and cursing in her long dress, her still-damp hair coming loose in a cloud over her face and getting in her mouth.

'Where are we going?' she panted as they raced through the tangled maze of alleyways that led from the plaza to the Second District entrance. 'We can't go through the checkpoint, they'll stop us!'

'I know a place,' Garak answered breathlessly, his grip on her arm still painfully tight. They could still hear footsteps behind them, but they were getting fainter; when they could hear nothing but their own shoes on the pavement, they ducked behind the extraction units at the back of an apartment block and tried to get their breath back, which wasn't easy in a cramped foul-smelling alcove full of rubbish and waste ducts.

'What are we going to do about the rifles?' Kira muttered. 'They're going to search the place and find them.'

'Yes, I know,' Garak answered shortly. 'I do wonder why Damar made us keep them there...'

'So do I, and I'd be very interested to hear all about it,' said a horribly familiar voice. Kira's heart turned to ice inside her as the barrel of a rifle poked its way into their space, followed by another and another. The Bureau had caught up with them.

'I suggest you come out,' said Madred's voice. 'You don't like enclosed spaces, do you, Garak?'

Kira and Garak simply stared at each other, brown eyes and blue reflecting twin expressions of horror and disbelief. How had this gone so wrong? Where had they tripped up?

'Alright, get them out of there,' Madred told his men. 'I want them alive.'

They had no chance of escaping a phaser beam on stun, not in a tiny corner like that. As the orange light bounced around and through her, Kira realised that the Alpha Quadrant may have just lost the war.

* * *

><p>Sisko put down his padd and sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He'd been up for three days straight trying to get through all this paperwork and he was nowhere near finished. And now Starfleet Intelligence had sent him this ridiculous announcement that non-Starfleet security were not allowed to investigate anything to do with Wrightwell's suicide, because it was a "Starfleet internal affair" and therefore outside the jurisdiction of Odo and the Bajoran deputies. So they couldn't have a new first officer until someone from Intelligence had come all the way here and carried out a full inquiry, and he and Worf and Dax would be drowning in work until it was all over; they'd split the executive officer's duties between them as best they could, but it was heavy going.<p>

There'd been no word of anything happening on Cardassia, either; the Dominion were bedding down firmer in their territory, and there had been reports of construction projects and lots of troops shuffling around between systems as well as a few border skirmishes, but nothing that looked like a big attack. No news was _not _good news. He knew something was going on over there, he could feel it. He just didn't know _what_, and that made him nervous.

He'd also heard that Dukat had escaped from custody and gone on the run in a shuttle, which he didn't even bother to be surprised about. Dukat was a complete and utter liability, but once he had an idea in his head he wouldn't give up, not for anything, and he seemed to have an almost freakish ability to stay alive through pretty much any sticky situation. Sisko didn't know what the Cardassian was up to, and he frankly didn't want to. He just hoped the Jem'Hadar blew Dukat up by mistake as he crossed the border in a Federation ship and solved everyone's problems for them – because as long as that man was still alive, nothing would ever make any sense.

'Ops to Sisko,' O'Brien's voice broke in. Sisko sighed. He'd never get these reports finished now.

'Go ahead, Chief.'

'A shuttle's just appeared on sensors, captain. You're not going to believe this,' the Irishman said slowly, 'but it's the one that Dukat escaped in.'

Sisko almost laughed. The man breaks out of prison, probably kills several people while doing so, not to mention risking his own life ten times over, and the first thing he does is come _here? _Truly, obsession knows no bounds...

'Oh, I believe it, Chief. Get Worf's team assembled on the Defiant. If he runs, we'll chase him.'

'He's hailing us, sir.'

'Open a channel. I'll come down and talk to him.'

Sisko hurried down the stairs and saw Dukat on the monitor. The Cardassian was half-starved and covered in bruises, with the look of a wild man on his face instead of the usual suave insincerity. Sisko frowned. This was not the same man he'd had arrested three months ago. Dukat grinned like a death's-head and fixed him with bloodshot blue eyes.

'Hello, captain,' he said hoarsely. 'Surprised to see me?'

'No,' Sisko muttered. 'I must say, Dukat, even I didn't think you were this crazy. You know that we're going to arrest you again, don't you?'

'It's not me you need to worry about,' Dukat snapped, not even bothering to make a snide remark. 'Have you heard of a man called Sloan? In Starfleet Intelligence?'

Sisko remembered Sloan, from that conversation with Nechayev. He was the one who'd sent Kira and Garak to Cardassia. Sisko had never had much truck with Intelligence, and this Sloan was even less likeable than most. He shrugged.

'I know who he is. What's your point, Dukat?'

'Well, he's not a man!' Dukat exclaimed. 'He's a Founder. Starfleet Intelligence is being run by a Founder, which means that he's sent Kira into a trap and we helped him do it!'

'What!' Sisko demanded, astonished. 'Where's your proof?'

'He showed me! He was there, in my cell, he told me what I'd done then beat me up – look – '

Dukat brushed back his tangled hair and demonstrated an ugly welt on his forehead; Sisko noticed that the Cardassian also had the remains of Starfleet-issue handcuffs stuck round his wrists, which looked bloody and raw. The captain sighed. Whatever the reason, Dukat had obviously risked a hell of a lot to get here, and that wasn't something a man like him did without a very good reason.

'Alright Dukat, I'd rather not have this conversation over subspace. Can you beam over?'

'No, I took the transporter to bits when I needed spare parts. I can try to dock, but the thrusters on this thing aren't up to much.'

'We'll beam you out,' Sisko said firmly. 'Stand by, Dukat. Chief?'

'I've got a lock,' O'Brien announced. 'Should I set up a containment field?'

Sisko thought about it. Yes, Dukat was an enemy. But he didn't look like he'd be capable of much, not in that state.

'No, Chief, don't worry. Sisko to Odo, I need you and a couple of deputies up here, please. We've got a... surprise visitor.'

'Right away,' Odo answered. O'Brien programmed the transporter and Dukat appeared on the platform a few seconds later. He looked even worse in real life than he did on the monitor, and certainly smelled worse. But he managed a lupine grin at the sight of Odo and two Bajoran deputies getting off the turbolift.

'Ah, the welcoming committee,' he remarked. 'Don't worry, I'm not here to start a fight.'

'You're in enough trouble already that you don't need to start _anything_,' Odo replied gruffly. Dukat shrugged.

'One man's villain is another's hero, constable. And vice versa, of course. Isn't that right, Sisko?'

'And which one are you, Dukat?' Sisko bit back, seriously not in the mood for verbal fencing with a Cardassian. Whatever Dukat's game was this time, he wasn't going to play it.

'Me? Oh, a little of each, I expect, depending on where you're standing,' Dukat answered coolly, refusing to be drawn. 'However, we have much more pressing matters to deal with than debating heroism and villainy, don't we?'

'Says you,' O'Brien interjected. 'Captain, you're not going to buy this cock-and-bull story about Founders in Starfleet Intelligence, are you?'

Dukat glared at O'Brien and started to open his mouth, but Sisko raised a hand to stop both of them.

'No, Chief, I'm not. Not without proof.'

'And how am I supposed to prove it?' Dukat snarled. 'Listen to me! Sloan spent six weeks trying to interrogate me, and it was me who gave him the Iliana Ghemor idea in the first place. Now it's only a matter of time before the Cardassian intelligence service catches up with Kira, and once they do, all hell will break loose! There isn't _time_ to prove it!'

'You expect me to believe a man with your reputation?' Sisko snorted. 'I'm not stupid, Dukat.'

'You're being stupid right now! Kira and Garak were sent to Cardassia to organise a revolt against the Dominion, but if Weyoun already knows about it, then he and whoever's Chief Legate now will just use it as an excuse to slaughter my people for trying to rebel _and_ launch another attack on you as retribution for sending spies in!'

Sisko stared at Dukat; this wild-eyed desperation was so far from the polished, smooth façade the Cardassian usually presented that he was almost convinced, for a second or two. Then he shook his head. Founders in Starfleet, a giant web of deceit and double-crossing – it sounded like some kind of mad conspiracy theory dreamed up by someone who'd spent too long in solitary confinement and gone round the bend.

'You've lost it, Dukat. There are no Founders in Starfleet, and if there were, we'd have found them by now,' he said flatly. He did feel a tiny flicker of doubt, but he squashed it. He wasn't going to believe these rantings; either Dukat had gone insane, or it was part of yet another convoluted plan, but Sisko wasn't going to be hoodwinked by a Cardassian again.

'And whose job would it be to find them? Starfleet Intelligence, of course!' Dukat spat. 'Don't be so blind, Sisko! They deliberately infiltrated your secret service, because who watches the watchers, after all? And don't ask me to prove it, because I can't, but I know what happened to me in that cell!'

'Right, that's it, I've heard enough,' Sisko said brusquely. 'The only thing you've proved so far is that your state of mind makes you even more of a danger than usual.'

'I'm not crazy and you know it,' Dukat growled. 'Why would I come all the way here to warn you if it wasn't important?'

'I don't know, Dukat, but to me that's not the behaviour of somebody sane, and I'm frankly amazed you got away with it. Odo, I want him put somewhere safe, and I want Bashir to have a look at him.'

'You're being a fool!' Dukat shouted over his shoulder as the deputies took him away. 'You wait and see, Sisko! And don't you dare blame it on me when the Dominion come for you!'

Sisko ignored him, but that flicker of doubt was back and it refused to go away, no matter how far he tried to shove it out of mind during the course of the evening. There were no Founders in Starfleet. There _couldn't_ be. But that communiqué from Intelligence that forbade Odo from getting involved with the Wrightwell investigation was definitely a little odd, and the more he thought about it, the more he started to suspect that something was not right here. Some kind of cover-up was going on, and he needed to get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later. Because if Dukat was telling the truth, then the implications were almost too terrible to think about.

* * *

><p><strong>Addendum #3 for loxKardasia:<strong>

Firstly, what makes you and your cousin so sure I'm female? And I'm glad she likes my attempt at Damar – thank you for telling me, it did indeed make me happy.

Anyway, to address your problem, it's fairly clear that Cardassians do not show affection in the same way as most other species. Remember that episode with O'Brien and the three Cardassian engineers who come to fix the computers? One of them has a massive crush on him, so she acts rude and unpleasant – because Cardassians aren't nice, they're sharp and quick-witted and aggressive, so it stands to reason that their romantic behaviour would use what they perceive as the best parts of their nature (even if humans wouldn't agree). When a Cardassian compliments you outright, it's usually a lie, an unkind joke or a way to manipulate you into something – but if they make a nasty comment, they're usually disguising appreciative feelings inside it. Kind of like "damning with faint praise" but in reverse. What Cardassians _don't _say is often far more informative (and honest) than all the lies and dogma and hot air that comes out of their mouths.

In terms of physical affection, I'd imagine they don't do a great deal in the way of kissing or snuggling or anything like that, either, unless they're with a partner from a species that does do all that. But just between themselves, they probably have something different, something specific to their physiology. Insults are flirting – so it stands to reason that fighting/attacking each other would be the equivalent of making out or something.

Still, we don't get much help with this on the show because we never really see any kind of romantic or sexual interaction between two Cardassians. The closest we get is Garak and Ziyal's interactions, which are _not_ very Cardassian (and there are a number of reasons for that which I won't go into now) but there is one clue: rather than kissing, they touch palms instead. Though maybe that's just the polite thing to do in public ;)

Lastly, I'm flattered that you wish to credit me in your story, but I really didn't do that much. I just gave you a few prods in the right direction. I'd be interested to read it at some point.


	14. Make The Mistakes

**A/N: loxKardasia, **I'm afraid I can't help you much with creativity... but that's the challenge and the joy of writing, isn't it? Finding a way past it is half the fun! Having said that, I of course don't mind you using the review thing to communicate as you have been doing, but I'm still interested to know what you thought of my chapters as well...

And don't worry, I'm not at all offended. I'm actually quite amused. And I am one of that majority, just for the record.

**A/N Supplemental:** I admit, I have no idea which of DS9's runabouts was still in service by this point (since I'm not even sure what date this point would be, insert "I hate temporal mechanics" AU-timeline headache here) so I picked one of them at random because it was the only one I could remember. Sorry if this offends anyone who feels strongly about that kind of thing, and please feel free to call me out on it if I'm wrong.

In fact, please feel free to call me out on anything at all... good, bad, ugly, I want to know. Come on, you people currently showing up as traffic statistics on my login page, put me out of my misery, eh?

**14: MAKE THE MISTAKES**

_I'm on your side, I'm on your side_

_Oh, but we don't see eye to eye_

_You're in the driving seat_

_Don't know where you're going_

_This is getting out of control_

– _The Automatic_

It was early the next morning when every computer on the station started playing the same message: Weyoun and Legate Broca, live in Lakat. All languages and frequencies. Everyone dropped what they were doing and turned to watch the nearest monitor, and a tense silence descended on DS9.

'Citizens of Bajor and the Federation,' Broca announced, obviously reading off a script, 'your joint attempt to infiltrate Cardassia with spies and saboteurs has failed, and your agents have been caught. This act is a gross violation of the Mutual Non-Aggression Pact between Bajor and the Dominion, and we have no choice but to retaliate using the strongest possible measures. Therefore, the Cardassian-Dominion Alliance hereby declare war on Bajor, its colonies, people and everything in its territory. Furthermore, we will not stop until we have destroyed you, as you tried to destroy us with your underhanded machinations...'

Sisko barely listened to the rest of Broca's ranting speech; instead he stared blankly at the screen as pieces fell into place so thick and fast that his brain almost hurt. Goddammit, Dukat _had_ been telling the truth! _That's _why there had been no big battles recently – the Dominion had been gearing up for an onslaught on Bajor instead, possibly for weeks, which meant they must have known about Kira's mission from the off. But if Starfleet moved to protect Bajor, which was practically defenceless against the Dominion's vast war machine, that would leave huge swathes of their flanks unguarded around the Badlands and the Cardassian border – not to mention the Neutral Zone, which had been pretty quiet for the last few years but the Romulans would never pass up an opportunity like that. It was the definitive no-win situation: enemies on all sides, too few ships, too much territory to hold on to, possible corruption at the highest levels... Starfleet was in check so many different ways it was almost pointless looking for an escape route.

Also, Kira was at the mercy of the Cardassian intelligence service, who already knew everything. They wouldn't even bother interrogating her. They'd just kill her publicly without fear of reprisals, having already declared the treaty broken; there was no chance they'd do otherwise. She was gone.

Unless, of course, someone managed to get in and free her before she was executed. And Sisko, in fact, had the man for the job. Well, he had one man he trusted to do the job, and another he didn't trust with anything at all but who knew the territory better than anyone else and, he supposed, _should _be involved. He thought about it. It would mean going against Starfleet Command, who had given orders for Dukat to be turned in as soon as he was found, but if there really were Founders up there then it was probably, in all honesty, the better thing to do right now. How had this happened to the Federation? Why had nobody been watching? And why had it taken a half-crazy, fallen-from-grace loose cannon like Dukat to point it out?

'Sisko to Odo.'

'Go ahead, captain,' Odo said, his rasping voice sounding thick and stricken. Ever since they'd learned Odo was from the Gamma Quadrant, Sisko kept forgetting that his security chief was first and foremost a Bajoran citizen. This news had probably hit him even harder than everybody else. Sisko sighed.

'I dare say you heard the announcement just now. I'll need to talk to all the senior staff as soon as possible, and I want you to escort Dukat up here too. It seems he may have been right after all.'

'On my way.'

In less than five minutes, all the senior staff except Odo were sat round the table in the wardroom. Everyone had the same expression: eyes stern, jaws set, tension in every line and ridge and hollow of their faces. Kira's empty chair had never been more evident, and they all tried to avoid looking at it. Another minute passed, then Dukat and Odo appeared through the door. Dukat looked somewhat more presentable than last time, but no more sane, and Sisko grimaced. If the word of this man was the only thing they could rely on, then things really were serious.

'See? I was right! I knew this would happen and you didn't listen!' Dukat exclaimed loudly as he approached the table. Sisko itched to hit him – only a Cardassian would use a moment like this to drop the "I-told-you-so" bomb – but managed to control himself.

'Yes, Dukat, you tried to warn me. But they say hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and gloating about it won't help matters. Now sit down and be quiet.'

Dukat looked astonished for a second at this flat response to his incessant provocation, but sprawled with bad grace into a chair at the far end and kept his mouth shut. Odo, Sisko noticed, put as much distance between himself and the Cardassian as security arrangements would allow.

'You all know why we're here,' Sisko began. It seemed ridiculous to sit down and talk about it – for God's sake, they had to _do _something, and fast – but he'd learned the hard way, several times, what happened in a crisis when you hadn't had at least one good solid briefing session. People lost their cool, they panicked, and that's when stupid mistakes were made. They couldn't afford that now.

'I hate to interrupt,' Dukat interrupted, 'but are you aware of how little time we have?'

'Yes, I am,' Sisko snapped. 'Which is why I'd rather you _let me finish_. Yes, we may need your help, but that doesn't mean we have to like it. So either you shut up, or you leave.'

O'Brien and Bashir both smirked, ever so slightly, and Dukat glared at the pair of them. Sisko got up and began to pace, his anger at Dukat needing some kind of outlet.

'It goes without saying that we've got to protect Bajor by any means necessary,' he continued. 'We've also got to continue protecting the wormhole, because if that minefield comes down this whole sector is history.'

'We do not have enough ships in the area to mount a solid defence,' Worf countered immediately; just because it was an obvious thing didn't make it any less of a problem. In fact, Sisko was glad that everyone had the same grasp on the situation (except maybe Dukat, because Sisko could never tell what went on in that man's head.)

'And if we pull back from the Badlands and leave that side unprotected, the Dominion will just attack us instead of Bajor,' Jadzia finished for him. 'Short of asking the _Romulans_ for help,' and Worf, O'Brien and Sisko all snorted incredulously at that, 'there's not much we can do. Bajor's in big trouble, and so are we.'

'Unless someone stops Weyoun before that attack can be launched,' Dukat said grimly. 'Which was what I planned to do ever since I escaped from the starbase, and which will get harder to achieve _the more time we waste,_' he finished pointedly. Odo suddenly sat up, stunned understanding dawning in his ice-crystal eyes.

'I've just realised what Wrightwell was talking about before he died,' he announced. 'If my people have infiltrated Starfleet Intelligence or anywhere high up the command structure, then one of them must have been forcing Wrightwell to sabotage the minefield. That's why they've stopped me from investigating, because they know I'll work out the truth. This so-called inquiry is them sending someone here to finish the job!'

'It'll be Sloan,' Dukat hissed. '_That's_ his plan. Oh, this is even worse than I thought...'

'Who is this Sloan?' Bashir interjected. Sisko opened his mouth to explain, but Dukat leapt in first:

'You mean, who _was _Sloan. He was high up in Starfleet Intelligence, until he was replaced by a Founder. He's also the man with whom I originally discussed Iliana Ghemor and the idea of a rebellion on Cardassia, while he was trying to interrogate me. Had I known what he really was...'

He didn't bother finishing the sentence, just let it hang in the air like a dark cloud. O'Brien looked furious, angry enough to say what everybody was thinking.

'So it's your fault that Nerys has been captured?'

'If I had been made aware that there were Founders in Starfleet when I first joined the Dominion, then believe me, this war would have gone very differently!' Dukat snarled, rising up out of his chair and leaning across the table towards O'Brien.

'Did you know?' he continued viciously. 'Could you tell that your closest friend,' he pointed at Bashir, 'had been replaced before he tried to bomb the Bajoran sun? And if you could, why was he not stopped sooner?'

'We were all a bit distracted by what _you'd _gone and done, actually!' O'Brien retorted hotly.

'Alright, that's enough!' Sisko interrupted. Nobody around this table needed any reminder of that unpleasant incident, and everyone's tempers were frayed enough already.

'Why would Sloan come here?' Jadzia asked, frowning. 'Why wouldn't he go to Cardassia?'

'I expect he wants to reopen the wormhole at the same time as the first attack on Bajor,' Dukat said thoughtfully. 'Yes, that's it, the clever swine. He's going to make a pincer, and your fleets will be caught in the middle of it.'

'My God, Dukat, we're actually thinking along the same lines for once,' Sisko laughed bitterly. 'This has to be a first.'

'There, you see? We're not so very different, you and I... And I suppose you'll have thought of this as well: you stay here and protect the wormhole while I go back to Cardassia and try to rescue Kira. Or, failing that, try to kill Weyoun, Broca and anybody else who's going to be a problem.'

'What's to say you won't just do another of those U-turns of yours?' Sisko demanded. 'Once you're back on home soil, how can we be sure you won't just drop the act and start attacking Bajor yourself?'

'You can't be sure,' Dukat answered, surprisingly gently. 'But would it really kill you to trust me?'

Sisko was about to answer that yes, it would probably kill everybody here and a good many more besides, but he stopped himself. This was one of the few moments at which Dukat was working for the same goal that they all were – thwarting the Dominion. And if Sisko had understood half of what had happened over the last few months, then Dukat had been doing this all along, probably even longer than Starfleet had. No, they'd wasted enough time botching each other's plans over and over again, and now there was no more time. Sometimes the enemy of your enemy really was your friend, because there was nobody else left.

'Alright, Dukat,' he conceded, aware of something heavy settling around his shoulders: the knowledge that if Dukat played them false again, he'd be the one to blame. 'But you're not going on your own. Odo, you're going with him, and I'm putting you in charge of the mission. If he does anything – '

'Do you mind? I'm right here!' Dukat protested. Sisko ignored him, turning back to Odo.

'If he does anything that looks even faintly suspicious, arrest him again.'

'Understood, sir,' Odo answered, sounding less than thrilled. Sisko knew that Kira was a big bone of contention between Odo and Dukat – but that was their business, not his. He wasn't going to get involved; things were complicated enough without personal issues as well.

'I want to come too,' Bashir chipped in suddenly. Dukat and Sisko both stared at him, Sisko in surprise, Dukat in a mixture of disgust and slightly morbid fascination. The doctor's youthful face was set hard, making him look ten years older and a thousand years tougher.

'This isn't some kind of pleasure cruise, you know,' Dukat sneered. Bashir scowled at him.

'Yes, and you're the last person I'd choose to spend time with, but I need to be there all the same. If Kira's been caught then Garak has too, and I owe him. Besides, they might need medical attention. I know all too well what the Dominion do to their prisoners,' he added bitterly.

'Julian,' O'Brien began, but Bashir stopped him.

'No, Miles. Garak helped me escape before, and I want to return the favour. I have to go.'

'Very well,' Sisko announced. 'Dax, Chief, Worf, you're staying here with me. We'll need all the help we can get if those fleets start coming for Bajor. How soon can you leave?' he asked Odo.

'We should have left already,' Dukat muttered. Odo looked sternly at him.

'We'll be ready in an hour or so, captain. I've got to brief the rest of the security staff about Sloan. If he turns up here while I'm gone, they'll need to be aware of what to look for.'

'Fine. Take the _Orinoco. _It'll be on pad C.'

'What are you going to tell Admiral Nechayev?' Jadzia asked. Sisko bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. Jadzia looked slightly worried; that was the grin that meant the chips were down, the shit was hitting the fan, and they were about as screwed as could be. That grin meant trouble.

'Nothing,' Sisko answered. 'In fact, I'm surprised no one from Command has contacted me yet. But when they do, Dukat wasn't here and we never had this conversation. Understood?'

As the rest of the crew nodded, Dukat laughed softly. Sisko turned abruptly to him.

'What's so funny?'

'You, captain. You and subterfuge are an ill-matched couple, I'm afraid.'

'As are you and integrity,' Sisko retorted. Dukat shook his head, still laughing.

'No doubt. Still, it's amazing what you find yourself doing when push comes to shove, isn't it? You with all your shiny Starfleet morals, defending an old and infamous Cardassian outpost against your own superiors... and me, getting involved in an uprising against a regime I helped create! Strange how these things turn out, hmm?'

Dark eyes met light, and a long moment passed. Human and Cardassian, honest and deceitful, noble and cunning, day and night. So different, yet in all the ways that mattered right now, they were just about the same.

'You bring her back, Dukat,' Sisko said fiercely. 'You're capable of just about anything, so be capable of doing the decent thing and resolve some of this crazy mess you've created.'

'I have no intention of doing otherwise,' Dukat informed him, equally fiercely, and Sisko really did believe him, for perhaps the first time ever. The Cardassian's eyes were wide open and very blue. As Sisko stared at him, he almost felt... understanding. Then Dukat smiled, letting a little of the harshness leave his expression. It was almost his familiar mocking grin, but not quite. And that not-quite-ness was what counted.

'But you, in return, must try your best not to get this station blown up,' he said. 'It was my home long before it was yours, and I'd hate to see anything happen to it. Or your fine crew, of course.'

'Deal.'

Sisko was uncomfortably reminded of the last time he'd worked together with Dukat on something, that tangled Maquis affair that felt like a hundred years ago. The enemy of your enemy...

* * *

><p>'See, I knew it was you on that shuttle,' Quark greeted Dukat as he approached the bar. 'Morn, you owe me five strips,' the Ferengi called over his shoulder to the big Lurian, who just rolled his eyes and dumped the money on the counter. Quark turned back to Dukat, grinning.<p>

'Now, you're either celebrating breaking out of prison or trying to forget that all this mess is essentially your fault. Either way, one bottle of kanar coming right up.'

'Ah, Quark, how I've missed you,' Dukat answered sarcastically, but it was partially true. He'd always rather liked the Ferengi, despite the fact that he was a money-grubbing little weevil; Quark was easy to talk to, didn't ask too many questions, and would do pretty much anything when faced with the appropriate bribe, threat or confidence trick that he was too greedy not to fall for. Dukat leaned on the bar.

'This could very well be the last drink I ever have, so it had better be a good one. None of that replicated stuff. And if by some miracle I come back in one piece, I'll pay you triple for it.'

'You're on. Oh, and by the way, your daughter's been looking for you. She knew it was you on that ship even before I did. Smart girl.'

'She is,' Dukat said proudly, but inside he felt a sudden, horrible surge of guilt. He'd barely spared her a thought over the last few weeks – and now Bajor was being threatened, she'd lost Nerys, and unless he had a sudden and vast influx of the good luck that he didn't even believe in, she'd probably end up an orphan before too long.

And _she _had been looking for _him._

'If you don't come back, I'll just put it on the captain's tab,' Quark said quietly as he set down a dusty bottle of kanar. 'But between you and me, I'll be holding out for that triple payment. And I want that in writing, by the way.'

Dukat had to laugh, and he willingly signed the padd the Ferengi held out.

'What makes you think I'll be coming back? Long odds, Quark. Very long odds.'

'Nah, that's not long odds at all,' Quark answered casually. 'You're like a losing streak in tongo; sooner or later you always come back. Besides, the other choice is betting on Weyoun, and he gets killed so often they have to travel with spare copies of him. Compared to that, betting on you is like betting it'll rain on Ferenginar tomorrow.'

'Quark, I love your view of the universe. Have I ever told you that?'

'Sure. I didn't believe you, of course. Enjoy your kanar.'

Quark went to the other side of the bar to talk to Odo, and Dukat tried not to drink his kanar too fast. It was a lousy vintage and it had been stored far too cold, but he found he didn't care. Odo was watching him suspiciously, but he didn't care about that either. A slim little figure entered the bar, her walk the exact copy of her mother's, especially when it sped up into almost a run as she saw him, and he didn't even care that she was being followed by Jake Sisko. She'd always been slight, but now as she threw her arms round his neck he was almost afraid to hug back in case he crushed her. His daughter, who he'd hurt so much and given so little, yet she still loved him without hesitation.

'You're going to rescue Nerys, aren't you? That's why you've come back, isn't it?' she asked anxiously, while Jake hung in the background looking awkward. He ignored the boy and looked at Ziyal's face, that sweet half-and-half face which was himself and Naprem and all the years they'd had together distilled into its purest form, neither one nor the other but somehow managing to be better than either. Yes, all this had clearly been hard on her and he was the cause of it, again. Now she probably suspected he was coming back here with yet another tangled plan to seize power one more time. He half-wished he was.

'Yes, Ziyal. I am going to rescue Nerys.'

Just seeing her face light up made it almost worthwhile. This could very well be the last time he ever saw her, and she was proud of him for it. _She _was proud of _him. _For doing something crazy and reckless and almost Bajoran in its irrationality. Gods help him.

'Be careful,' she begged. He couldn't promise her that – he couldn't promise her anything, he never had been able to – but he nodded anyway, and it brought small and cold comfort to see the relief in her eyes. Saying it, even if you didn't mean it, somehow made a difference.

'And you, Ziyal. I want you off this station as soon as possible, if they'll let you leave. Go to Lissepia, or Xepolite, somewhere neutral – anywhere but Bajor. It's not safe there any more.'

Thanks to me, he thought gloomily. Would she leave? She'd defied him before, and he'd been furious. With her, with himself, with the whole idea that she could have been killed and he wouldn't have been able to stop it. And would he make her promise?

No. He wouldn't. He wanted to, but he wouldn't.

'I will, Father,' she said. Even if she didn't mean it. He hugged her again as tight as he dared to, knowing that all Quark's customers were probably staring at him but really not giving a damn, then let her go as he saw Odo nod at him and jerk his thumb towards the door. It was time. This was not a good day to die.

But when was it _ever _a good day to die?

'Father,' she began, and he saw the tears on her face, but he picked up his half-finished bottle of kanar and walked away quickly before he said anything he regretted. He knew she wouldn't leave, and he knew he probably wouldn't come back, and he knew he'd made her cry again, because he always did. What could he say?

As he sat in the runabout with Odo and Bashir, savouring the last of his kanar, he shook his head at the sheer ridiculousness of what he was about to do. He had to sneak back onto Cardassia where everyone thought he was dead, make contact with a load of dissidents who he'd spent his life trying to stamp out in one way or another, break Nerys and the bastard tailor out of wherever they were being held, and somehow try to persuade the military that they were on the wrong side even though he'd been the one to put them there in the first place. Not to mention getting rid of Weyoun, Broca and possibly Sloan as well, depending on where he chose to rear his ugly head. All before they started attacking Bajor.

And Quark thought he was the safe bet.

Gods help him.


	15. Eyes In The Sky

**A/N:** Whoops, this took _way_ longer to write than it should have done, for which I am very sorry. This has been the week from hell, and it's only Wednesday.

As ever, many thanks to everyone who reviewed, added to favourites etc. It absolutely makes my day when I get back from work and find the email alerts waiting for me. Honestly it does.

**A/N Supplemental:** Those of you wondering about the Jake/Ziyal thing... I suggest you read "Questions" by **sophiegrace **over on AO3. This is the only Jake/Ziyal fic I've come across, and it's lovely. Link is here:

**archiveofourown dot org / works / 152353**

**loxKardasia,** no sweat. I understand and empathise with the need to discuss what you're writing – indeed, I personally am reduced to using my cat as a sounding board, and a fat lot of use she is. Not to mention what my (very un-Trekkie) flatmates must think if they hear me.

**15: EYES IN THE SKY TONIGHT**

_I'm drained and I'm empty, I've still got love in me_

_There's eyes in the sky tonight, watching us lose the fight_

_We really are ants now, escape the nest somehow_

_I ached for a feeling, you came and you poured it in_

– _Editors_

Damar wondered why he was so surprised when the plan backfired spectacularly. Ghemor and Garak had been arrested and the evidence was burning through systems all over Cardassia like a plague, the cure for which was apparently being rounded up by the Bureau's squads. He should have known it would happen; it was too much, too fast, and someone, somewhere along the line, had obviously cracked under the pressure. He never should have attempted it – correction, he thought bitterly, never should have let Ghemor persuade him into attempting it.

When she first turned up he'd been prepared to hate her, because _he _was the one with all the big ideas to transform Kantar en I'las from a motley bunch of hotheads and troublemakers into a serious anti-Dominion movement, and she'd stolen his thunder. But he was impressed despite himself, so he'd let her take control, he'd got caught up in her plans, and they'd gone much too far. Their secret weapon was now a poisoned chalice, their supporters were being arrested, people were panicking, and it was probably only a matter of time before someone spilt their guts about this safe-house. And he didn't have the faintest idea what to do now; this was Ghemor's plan, not his, and without her he was all at sea.

As for all this rubbish about her being Kira Nerys in disguise, well, that was ridiculous. He'd spent nearly a year working with that Bajoran lunatic, and the only possible resemblance between her and Ghemor was small stature and dark eyes – which weren't exactly unusual amongst either Bajoran or Cardassian women. In every way that mattered, they were chalk and cheese, and he doubted Kira was that good an actor. And even she wouldn't be stupid enough to try that trick twice, either. If she was still alive, that is, though there had been some rumours recently about her death in a mysterious skirmish that nobody had any record of. Still, if people wanted proof that Ghemor was "Bajoran," the Bureau would just alter her appearance, and it was hardly like _that_ hadn't been done before. No, he was sure that the claim was little more than a clever excuse for Broca and Weyoun to announce another big attack, with all the fierce, relentless drive of preparation and manoeuvring and the gearing-up of the great machine that this involved.

And this time, the target was Bajor.

Not so very long ago, he'd have been bang alongside this – they'd finally get a chance to pay the Bajorans back for that utter disaster that called itself an Occupation – but he knew he couldn't support it any more. If it was something the Dominion wanted, he had to oppose it on principle, which to him felt like a completely backwards, illogical way of thinking but he was prepared to do it anyway. Besides, there was practically nothing useful left on Bajor, besides the wormhole and the double-edged sword that was Terok Nor; it would be a hollow victory that cost a lot of lives, _Cardassian _lives. They had to end this war, not start it up all over again. And ending the war meant getting rid of the Dominion, not the Federation or Bajor or any other Alpha Quadrant power; if they went down that route, they'd be there forever. This had to _stop, _and it had to stop _soon. _But they'd blown their chance.

Gods, he needed Ghemor!

Dare he break her out of prison? He had no idea where she and Garak were being held, and it would be horrendously risky, but he _needed_ them. The movement needed them. If he could somehow get them out of there, they could work on a plan B and try to restore some support once all this furore about the evidence calmed down a little. Or, failing that, fall back on Rusot's old standby of blowing things up, making tiny feeble attacks on the Dominion like a cloud of gnats – hardly more than an irritation, and easily squashed with one good slap.

Ah, Rusot... yet another problem. He'd been furious when they'd started without him, but instead of simply spreading the word like he'd agreed to, he'd rushed over here as soon as the Sixth Order had landed, absolutely besides himself and hardly even bothering to be careful. There followed a blazing row in which Rusot had accused Damar of betrayal, and Damar for his part had accused Rusot of being deliberately obstructive because they weren't doing things his way. Rusot had stormed off, muttering dire threats, but Damar was pretty sure he wasn't the one who sold them out. He wouldn't go that far just to soothe his injured pride.

Would he?

Entek came down the stairs, and Damar looked glumly up from his padds. Over the last few days, the reports had been getting worse every time Entek returned: arrests, disappearances, raids, deaths, supporters fleeing the planet, and so on. It almost made him glad he was stuck in here; if it was really as bad as it sounded out there, he was better off away from it.

'What news, Entek?' he asked, not really wanting to know. Entek shrugged.

'Same as yesterday – it's bad out there. They've started raiding Third District as well, and the first trials are already showing on all the public viewscreens. No sign of Mila, either; I checked her house, but it's been sealed by the Bureau and they've got investigation teams all over the place.'

Damar swore. If they could find Mila, they'd be halfway to finding Ghemor and Garak; if anyone knew where they'd been taken, it would be her. He didn't trust the old woman an inch, but it would be far safer to have her on their side than against them. Also on his mind was the problem of how they were going to get those damn rifles back. He'd told Garak to stash them somewhere, fearing what would happen if they stored both the guns and the power cells here (especially because they were from the Second Order, whose munitions-related mishaps were nothing short of infamous amongst the military) but he hadn't anticipated them being quite so out-of-reach. Still, what was the use of having rifles at all if there was no one there to fire them?

'Keep looking. If you can find out where they're being held, I'll make a plan to get them out. Any word from Rusot?'

Entek simply shook his head and ducked out again. Damar was left alone in the headquarters with nothing but his worries for company, and very poor company they were too. It could have gone so well – gods, it could have been glorious,and the glory would have been his for once – but instead it had ended up like this. Sitting alone in an abandoned house in the ass-end of Lakat, waiting for the authorities to find him. It wasn't even a question of _if _any more, it was simply a question of _when._

He should have known it was too good to last.

* * *

><p>Odo, Bashir and Dukat were beginning to wonder just how long their luck would hold as they crept their way across the mysteriously empty territory between the Denorius Belt and Cardassia Prime. Considering there was an attack on Bajor happening any minute now, they'd expected a lot more ships out this way, and had even waited an extra few hours while O'Brien did something mysterious to the <em>Orinoco<em>'s engines which supposedly made them less likely to be spotted if they travelled slowly. But they'd only been stopped so far by a single Jem'Hadar patrol ship, and the First had taken one look at Odo and immediately given way to them, unquestioningly, obeying out of a reflex bred into his people for centuries. He didn't even bat an eye when Odo forbade him and his squad from telling anyone else about what they'd seen.

'Useful, travelling with a Founder,' Dukat remarked as the ship disappeared out of view. Odo winced visibly and concentrated harder on piloting.

'Pity it won't work so well if we meet a ship full of Cardassians,' Bashir remarked with some asperity, perhaps in defence of Odo. Dukat shrugged.

'I'd like to think my miraculous return from the dead will have some impact, but I fear it may just be a quick way to find out where Kira and Garak are being held – by dint of joining them, that is. And I'll take the controls from here, if you don't mind.'

Odo looked at him strangely for a second or two, but moved over all the same. Then he looked even more askance when Dukat changed course without warning and steered them into the middle of a small but peculiarly dense asteroid field, not even bothering to turn the proximity detectors on.

'I'm not blind, you know, I can see what's coming,' Dukat remarked indignantly when Bashir called him out on this. The doctor sighed.

'Some would argue quite the reverse, given your track record. Where are we going, anyway?'

'Cardassia Prime, of course,' Dukat retorted, then jerked the shuttle out the way of a rapidly-advancing mass so abruptly that Bashir nearly fell off his chair; he stifled an unkind laugh at the doctor's peeved expression as he straightened the vessel up. 'I just thought we'd take a detour.'

'Dukat...' Odo warned, but the Cardassian waved a hand dismissively.

'Don't worry, we won't be seen; these asteroids are so dense that sensors are practically useless. Besides, nothing bigger than a Hideki would be foolhardy enough to come this way, as our somewhat erratic flight path may suggest.'

'Won't somebody be watching it, if it's really that good at hiding ships?'

'If you knew nothing bigger than a shuttle was coming, would you bother watching it? After all, they're expecting something slightly more threatening than three people in a runabout.'

None of them could deny that. Three people against Sloan, Weyoun and the might of the Dominion, without a plan, without much equipment, and without anyone they could trust, including each other. It didn't look good. As they left the densest part of the asteroid field and began to see more open space, a sudden rash of Jem'Hadar ships on the far edge of the radar looked even less good.

'They won't see us, they're going the other way,' Dukat pointed out to Bashir, who was staring at the display in alarm. Dukat redirected the _Orinoco_ towards Cardassia Prime, going almost recklessly fast through the still-plentiful asteroids and ignoring the computer's squawks about exceeding recommended speed limits, and Bashir scowled.

'Why do I not believe you? And can you please go a little slower? I have no wish to be pulverised by a million-ton lump of rock!'

'If my driving doesn't agree with you, you're welcome to get out and walk...'

'That's enough, both of you,' Odo snapped. 'But we probably should slow down. If they see us – '

'If they see us, we'll know about it long before they reach us,' Dukat said flatly. He didn't like Starfleet vessels, because they were full of ridiculous little gadgets (like automatic proximity detectors and warnings about speed limits) that were unnecessary and patronising to any pilot with half a brain. He also didn't like the idea that the fleet they'd seen was probably headed for Bajor, because it meant they had even less time than he thought – which, of course, was why he was going so fast. And he _really _didn't like being stuck in this overgrown escape pod with Bashir, who put his back up almost as much as Sisko did. However, he wouldn't hesitate to needle the doctor about the real reason for coming with them; it was too good an opportunity to miss. He began to smile as he realised he was almost thinking like his old self again, then he stopped. He'd smile when he had something to smile about, and not before.

He smiled when he remembered the hole in the sensor net that surrounded Cardassia Prime. There was a natural blind spot above the north pole, conveniently just big enough to fit a Hideki-sized ship through, which he'd discovered purely by accident when the Dominion had helped to rebuild the sensor networks in the wake of the Klingon attacks. He'd deliberately neglected to do anything about it, because he'd learned from painful experience that it always paid to have a back-door... though he hadn't exactly envisaged sneaking _in_ through it. He also smiled at Bashir's horrified expression when he turned the runabout towards the hole, then simply cut the engine and let them drop right through it, before changing to manoeuvring thrusters and eliciting more squawks about safety protocols from the computer. They landed in the barren, lifeless polar mountains, turned off all the non-essential systems, and made a few final preparations.

'Where would they be keeping Kira and Garak?' Odo asked.

'Probably Central Intelligence,' Dukat mused, unable to avoid a grimace as he thought of the labyrinth of cells and interrogation chambers that made up the huge building in the heart of Lakat. The first time he'd been there was on his twentieth birthday, the day his father was executed for treason, and no matter how many visits he made afterwards, for whatever purpose, it always reminded him of that day: death, humiliation and his youthful self's immature, white-hot anger, the desire for bloody vengeance rather than the cool elegance of tactical revenge. Even now, more than thirty years later, he still felt the shadow of it. If they were in there... He didn't care about Garak, in fact he'd be more than happy if the tailor was left to moulder in a dungeon for eternity as retribution for getting so many other people thrown in there, but the idea of Nerys in that place made his hackles rise still further. Bashir looked doubtful.

'Probably? That's not much to go on.'

'It's the best we can do,' Dukat answered shortly. 'It won't be easy to get in, either, but I think I have a plan. Odo, I take it you can still do that Cardassian neck trick of yours?'

'Yes, but I can't hold it for long. We'll have to be quick.'

Dukat noticed that Odo sounded decidedly embarrassed. Perhaps imperfect mimicry was considered a defect amongst changelings, or perhaps Odo just felt feeble in comparison to Sloan, who had fooled them so completely. Though it was probably the "neck trick" reference; Odo got a lot of stick for that when he'd first arrived on Terok Nor, back in the good old days. Or were they the bad old days?

'We certainly will, considering I'm supposed to be dead and I can only keep my head down for so long before someone spots me. You'd better do the talking.'

He could have made an ironic remark about Cardassians and talking, but thought better of it. Now somehow wasn't the time. He fumbled in the equipment locker and dug out some armour that was left behind when his men abandoned Terok Nor; for some reason it had ended up in the assay office, and Odo had been more than willing to get rid of it. Dukat had no idea whose it was and it didn't fit too well, but as he put it on he felt fully clothed for the first time in three months. There were even some boots. Odo studied him for a few minutes, then began to shapeshift bits of his torso into various armour-like textures, an expression of intense concentration on his face.

'And what am I supposed to be doing while this is happening?' Bashir interjected. Dukat grinned nastily. Now _this_, he was damn well going to enjoy. Bashir had been annoying him all day, and of course it might be the last time he ever enjoyed anything.

'You, doctor, are going to be our prisoner. I suggest you practice looking distressed.'

'With you for company, I hardly need much practice,' Bashir muttered. Dukat pretended not to hear.

* * *

><p>Kira sat in the dark, and she thought about dying. More exactly, she thought about how long it would be until they came for her, dragged her out and killed her in the square, in front of thousands of people. Those same thousands of people would then look on as the first waves of fighters reached Bajoran territory, with only poor, beleaguered Deep Space 9 and the still-mined wormhole as any kind of defence for the planet she'd failed so badly.<p>

And the worst thing was, she'd really tried. She'd _really_ tried. Not only that, but she'd actually begun to care, not just about her success, but about the people she was helping. Yes, she'd come to care about the Cardassians. She'd caught herself rooting for them, wanting them to rise up and throw out the Dominion and do something good for once, instead of just meeting the sticky and ignominious end she'd always felt they so richly deserved.

Now it was her meeting the sticky end, and she wondered if she deserved it. She'd messed up, she knew she had, because she simply wasn't cut out for this stuff. And Madred, obviously livid at being made a fool of, had exacted his retribution all over her skin. Her disguise was in tatters, half her scales missing, leaving only the telltale red raw of non-Cardassian blood. He'd done it to her himself, displaying the dexterity of a surgeon coupled with the mind of a butcher – or perhaps the other way round – and he'd shown her the camera in the ceiling which he'd assured her was active. Everybody would want to see who the mysterious Iliana Ghemor really was, and most importantly, how much of a mistake it was to trust her and her "evidence," when she was nothing but an impostor. Furthermore, she was an impostor who got caught, which was an even worse crime.

Her cell was hot, dark and airless, it smelt of blood and old terror, and the idea that this would be where she spent her last hours was almost too much to bear. It wasn't the dying itself; she and death were, if not old friends, then at least more than passing acquaintances. No, it was the _dying like this _which really got her. This drawn-out, painful waiting – _waiting _to _die, _when she'd had so many opportunities to go down fighting, like she'd always thought she would. The complete lack of power over something as personal as her own death made her livid, as did the knowledge that all the hard work she'd done would be for nothing. All the Cardassians would see when she was dragged through the streets in disgrace was a Bajoran spy who'd tried to mess them around. They'd see a disgrace and an outrage, and act in the only way they'd ever known: violence. Bajor wouldn't just be reoccupied, it would be _annihilated. _So would DS9, and so, eventually, would the Federation. Nobody here would stop to ask why, when they could wage war instead.

Prophets, it made her sick.

So she lay in the dark, sore, furious and hopeless, and waited to die. Her one, selfishly almost-good thought was that she wouldn't have to watch as her friends lost the war.

* * *

><p>Her cell door suddenly opened and bright light spilled through the gap, outlining a Cardassian in armour. This was it. She was going to die. Far away from her friends, far away from her home and everything she loved. She begged the Prophets one more half-hearted time for some sort of last minute miracle, but she knew it was futile. They'd stopped listening a long time ago.<p>

Her bruised jaw dropped open when she heard the Cardassian curse softly. She'd know that voice anywhere. But that was impossible. It had to be some sort of hallucination.

'Alright, Madred,' she rasped out through her bone-dry throat. 'You've won already, stop messing with my head. Just let me die in peace.'

'I'm not Madred, and I'm certainly not going to let you die. Why else do you think I came here on this fool's errand?'

Prophets, that really was Dukat bending down next to her, that really was his hand on her face, his eyes looking at her anxiously. Hallucinations didn't have rough scales and strong tendons and a hammering pulse, and they certainly didn't hurt when they brushed over one of the many wounds Madred's "unmasking" had inflicted on her. She had no idea what to say; she was astonished beyond words, spitting mad at him for putting her through all this, and unspeakably relieved that he was here.

'What – how – ?' she managed before he shushed her.

'No time to explain. Can you stand up? And if you can't, whoever did this is going to suffer the same fate _twice_,' he snarled. She almost laughed, even though everything hurt and she could hardly move, let alone stand up. That was Dukat alright.

'I pray for a miracle, and the Prophets send _you?_' she wheezed as she dragged herself to her feet with his help, wobbling on knees that felt like they were made of Mila's taspar omelette. He sighed at her determined efforts, then hoisted her over his shoulders, the bones of his neck and the edge of his armour digging into her stomach.

'Sorry to disappoint. We'd better hurry up, Odo and Bashir's distraction will only last so long...'

'They're here too?'

'Like I said, no time to explain right now,' Dukat said breathlessly as he kicked the cell door shut and hurried down the dark corridor. Kira grabbed at him.

'Wait, what about Garak?'

'The hell with Garak! We've got to _leave!'_

'We are not going without him,' Kira insisted. 'Put me down, I'll find him – '

She was interrupted by an alarm that suddenly shrilled, and running footsteps behind them made Dukat spin round so fast he almost dropped her. From her sideways vantage point past his elbow, she could make out a strange lumpy procession of figures moving awkwardly down the corridor, which she then identified as Bashir and – oh, Prophets, it really was him – Odo, with a semi-conscious Garak between them, one limp arm slung round each of their necks.

'I take it we've overstayed our welcome,' Dukat said by way of greeting. 'Let's go.'

Kira was a little confused about the rest of it, but she remembered running footsteps, the deafening noise of the alarm, phaser fire, shouting, and under it all the constant vise of Dukat's grip around her legs and his bony shoulders digging into her as he raced pell-mell through endless corridors, Odo and Bashir stumbling along behind with Garak. She also remembered, with startling clarity, the moment when they burst out of the building into the heat and colour of a Lakat dawn, the low sun dazzling her as it bounced off glass walls and phaser shots ricocheted past, until Dukat yelled something and she felt the familiar freezing feeling of being transported.

As miracles go, it could have been worse.


	16. Fingers In The Factories

**A/N: WARNING! This chapter contains implied torture, nasty injuries and other unpleasant things. You may want to skip a few bits if you squick easily.**

However, it also contains my own special brand of not-very-romantic romance, because I listen when readers complain that there's not enough lovin'... (AnKiDu and Rachel, I'm looking at you!)

Bonus points to anyone who can spot what _else_ it contains.

**A/N Supplemental: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed etc, it's always lovely to hear from you. And I _promise_ it won't take quite as long for the next chapter, I know you've been waiting – so thank you also for your patience while I attempt to get my chaotic schedule under control. Work/life balance? I wish.

**16: FINGERS IN THE FACTORIES**

_Smile for once, for a moment, it makes us happy_

_What we need is here_

_Ah you're the night, the dirty night, you make us angry_

_There's everything to fear_

– _Editors_

Kira wasn't that impressed with where they ended up; she only seemed to have traded one dark, cramped room for another, and this one didn't smell much better than her cell. As Dukat deposited her gently on the floor then disappeared round a corner, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness then looked around, trying to get her bearings. It appeared to be some sort of store-room, or maybe a cellar, full of dusty shelves and boxes, and there was a battered transporter array in one corner which looked like it had been pulled out of an old Galor. Bashir and Odo put Garak down next to her, where he slumped against the wall with a faint groan. From what she could see of him, he didn't look at all well; his skin was blue-pale and a sliver of white showed under his closed eyelids. She wondered what they'd done to him in there. Her own experiences had been bad enough, but Madred would have probably dealt a worse punishment to one of his own species working against him than to a Bajoran. After all, Bajorans were already the enemy.

'Are you alright?' Odo asked her softly. She was so glad he was here that she grinned up at him even though it hurt her face.

'I've been better,' she answered. 'Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on? I heard about an attack on Bajor, but...'

'They knew about you all along, Nerys,' Dukat broke in, striding across to them before Odo could open his mouth. 'Sloan's a Founder. He set a trap and I blindly pushed you right into it.'

Kira's mouth fell open, hurting her face even more, and she shut it gingerly. Sloan, chief of Starfleet Intelligence, was a Founder. Prophets, that meant... She could barely think about all the terrible things it meant, so she latched onto the one tiny positive in the great sea of disaster: it wasn't her fault that she got caught. The mission was doomed to failure right from the word go.

_It wasn't her fault._

'So "exposing" me as a spy was only an excuse to justify the attack on Bajor. All they had to do was wait until the fleets were ready before they came for me.'

'That's about the long and the short of it,' Odo muttered. 'Question is, what do we do now?'

'I'll tell you what we do now,' Bashir said pointedly, eyeballing Odo and Dukat. 'The two of you are going to give me some space while I see to Nerys and Garak's injuries.'

Having her wounds treated was almost as painful as receiving them in the first place, but Kira gritted her teeth and put up with it. The dermal regenerator wouldn't work because she had too many scales still embedded in her skin, some of them mangled and jagged, and the light was so poor that Bashir could hardly see what he was doing – so he ended up simply dosing her with heavy-duty painkillers and stitching or dressing the worst of the cuts and scratches.

'That's the best I can do at the moment,' he said after what felt like an agonisingly long time. 'It's not very pretty, I'm afraid. You certainly don't look fully Cardassian any more, nor fully Bajoran.'

'As long as I get my own face back when this is all over, I don't care what I look like,' Kira bit out as she waited for the pain meds to kick in, and it wouldn't be a moment too soon either. She couldn't help being curious though, and wished she had a mirror; the injuries to her face had definitely been the most painful. Especially when they'd ripped the long black hair off her head, pulling out chunks of her own hair with it, and when Madred had peeled the scales off her nose to reveal the unmistakeable Bajoran ridges. Not to mention the wrenched jaw she'd earned herself when she tried to bite his hand. Never mind, she thought, I'm still alive. For now.

Bashir turned his attention to Garak, who groaned and twitched as the doctor examined him. He could find no physical injury besides a few bumps and bruises, so decided to rouse the Cardassian from his stupor. Garak's eyes flickered open, he looked around wildly, then he began to struggle, grabbing at Bashir's sleeves and mumbling in broken, barely-translatable Kardasi, words that Bashir almost could have sworn were quotations from _Julius Caesar_. Whatever he was seeing, it had obviously terrified the wits out of him. Bashir dreaded to think what it would take to break someone like Garak, but it probably would have killed a lesser man.

'Scan him for psychotropics,' Dukat suggested. 'It was always one of his favourite methods, so it stands to reason that Madred would have used it on him. Do as you would be done by, and so on.'

'You bastard, you're enjoying this, aren't you?' Bashir retorted furiously, springing to his feet and squaring up to Dukat. Dukat shrugged, but his eyes were chips of glass.

'If our positions were reversed, he'd be doing exactly the same thing. It's who we are, doctor. However friendly and charming he seems on the surface, underneath he's just as bad as you think I am. Someone in your position would do well to remember that.'

Bashir looked like he was about to answer back, but instead he simply stared at Dukat for a long moment, then sighed and sat back down next to Garak, who was still struggling feebly; Bashir quickly hypo'ed the Cardassian again and he went limp.

'What kind of drugs?'

'Probably some kind of stimulant, to keep him conscious.'

'Good God,' Bashir said softly as the tricorder began to bleep and flash. 'That's nasty stuff, whatever it is. That cell would have been bad enough for him in his right mind, but with all this on top...' He gave Garak another hypo, and Dukat looked on with interest.

'Where did you find him? That claustrophobia thing of his is quite severe, or so I've heard.'

'They obviously knew that, because he was in a tiny room about six feet by five, along with the body of an old woman which showed evidence of prolonged torture,' Odo answered, as composed as if he was reading out one of the Tuesday crime reports in his office over raktajino, but Kira knew he was as sickened and disgusted as Bashir. An old woman... Mila. Madred must have got her too, and probably forced Garak to watch as he took her apart.

'That was his mother,' Kira muttered, fists clenching before she remembered the raw skin on her knuckles; the pain only made her angrier. 'Oh, if I ever get my hands on Madred...'

'He'll have to wait,' Dukat told her. 'We've got bigger problems to deal with. Now, where can we find Kantar en I'las?'

'I don't know the exact location of the headquarters, Damar never gave me the coordinates – '

'Damar?' Dukat interrupted. 'My Damar? He's still alive?'

'As far as I know, yes, but I don't think he's precisely _yours_ any more,' she snapped. 'He blames you for the fact that he's had to do all this the hard way.'

'I had more important things to concentrate on, like saving your life!' Dukat said indignantly, but he looked ashamed, and Kira experienced a disconcerting mixture of fury, confusion and something else, something as soft and vulnerable as the bruises on her body. He knew what the cost would be when he jumped in front of that disruptor bolt but he'd done it anyway, probably not expecting that he'd live to see the consequences. But he had lived after all, and responsibility for all the loose ends and mess that his death would absolved him of had landed heavily on his shoulders. Also, Damar knew the truth now, and there'd be hell to pay. Not only had she tricked Kantar en I'las, but she was also the woman who had ruined the original plan, divided Dukat's loyalties, and forced Damar to struggle and cower and hide in cellars instead of being in charge. Kira still wasn't at all sure that she liked Damar, but she'd come to understand his viewpoint. Beating the Dominion came first, over and above any personal matters. When you were a freedom fighter, you didn't have the luxury of personal matters. But Dukat had always had a bit of a blind spot when it came to "personal" versus "important," and this was no exception. His reunion with Damar certainly wouldn't be what he hoped for. She sighed.

'I know, Dukat, we've been over this before,' she said, voice flat, yet finding herself unable to resist the reference to that night they'd spent. She didn't want to ask herself why, either, because she knew she wouldn't like the answer, or at least she _shouldn't _like the answer. But if they both lived long enough to reach the other side of this nightmare, then maybe... just maybe, they'd talk about it, see if there really was anywhere they could go from here.

She couldn't stop herself hoping that they would both live.

'Anyway, as I was saying before you butted in, I don't know exactly where their main headquarters is because Garak and I only ever went there once. Their safe-house in Second District is blown already, we can't go there... Are you even listening to me?' she demanded furiously as Dukat turned away mid-sentence and started fiddling with the old computer terminal next to the transporter plate.

'Of course I am, which is why I'm hoping you remember the way there, at least. Here, look...'

He brought up a map on the computer screen, only to be shoved distractedly out the way by Garak, who had wobbled his way across the room looking like death warmed up but considerably more lucid than a few minutes ago.

'Garak, I thought I told you not to – ' Bashir began, but the tailor completely ignored him.

'I know the location,' he said unevenly. 'But of course nobody bothered to ask _me, _did they?'

'Oh, my mistake, I thought you were too busy being a gibbering wreck who's just spilled his guts to the Bureau about everything under the sun!' Dukat sneered.

'This coming from a man who _willingly _entrusts his master plan to a Founder, while still being of sound mind?' Garak shot back as he entered transport coordinates with a badly trembling hand. 'Well, as sound as _your_ mind ever gets...'

'You are in no position to doubt anybody else's state of mind! And if I'd known he was a Founder, I obviously wouldn't have told him anything. I'm not a complete idiot, you know. In fact – '

'Oh, do be quiet, I'm finding it hard enough to concentrate without you talking my ear off...'

Kira was almost glad. Garak and Dukat bickering? That was normal. Bashir rolling his eyes and telling them to cut it out, that was normal too. It went a little way to counteracting some of the madness of the last few weeks, the fear, the panic, the torture and the death and the awful, endless guilt when she'd believed it was her fault that Bajor was being attacked. Now she knew it never could have been otherwise and that they were even more screwed than they'd thought, something as commonplace as those two having another of their never-ending verbal firefights was... sort of comforting, in a way. Garak just managed to poke in the last few coordinates before his shakes got too bad, and Odo had to haul him bodily onto the transport platform. The rest of them stood round him, so he'd at least have some cover if they transported into the middle of a Bureau raid. Dukat reached out and pressed the transport key.

'Energise.'

* * *

><p>Damar was sitting on his sleeping mat, brooding and waiting for death to come, when Entek suddenly got up from his perch on a crate full of power-cells for the rifles they could no longer access. The quiet man's face was taut, head tilted as he listened intently.<p>

'I think there's someone outside,' he said softly. 'I'll go up and check. You'd better stay out of sight.'

Entek headed upstairs, while Damar quickly concealed himself in the small alcove behind the waste processor and checked the cell on his hand phaser. Not many shots left, and to add insult to injury there were tons of cells sitting right there, only they were the wrong type. Oh well; if he only had a few shots left, he'd just have to make them count. Come and get me then, he thought. If he was going to die, he'd die on his feet with a weapon in his hand. Not strung up naked on a scaffold in Central Plaza while the war-drums rolled, which the news bulletins gleefully announced was the fate intended for Ghemor. Nor in a Bureau cell alone and broken, like Garak, and possibly Mila as well. He'd hidden and cowered for long enough now; if he was going to die, he'd die like a soldier.

He heard the sudden shove of the door being opened and several bodies tumbling through, Entek's astonished curse, then a scramble of feet downstairs, interspersed with what sounded like somebody being carried. This certainly didn't sound right. Who out of his supporters would dare to come here with all that going on outside? Nobody else knew where they were, and if someone had spilled the beans already then the Bureau would hardly bother to use the door, not when they could just beam straight in. He powered the phaser and carefully leaned out of his hidey-hole.

His curse was even more astonished than Entek's. This could not be possible. Three of the people in the room should be dead, and the other two far away in Federation territory. Yet here they were: Dukat, who he had last seen bleeding to death on the floor of Terok Nor's operations hub after betraying his people to save a Shakaar terrorist. Ghemor, her face and neck an alarming patchwork of scales and pinkish skin – she was clearly half-way through being turned into a Bajoran. Or, his mind added in the nothing-is-impossible manner of the completely stunned, halfway through being turned _back _to Bajoran. Behind them was Garak, still alive but currently being carried over to a spare mattress by the changeling called Odo and the young Terran doctor from Sisko's crew whose name he could not recall. Entek was at the back, shaking his head in disbelief.

'Huh?' Damar blurted, too shocked to say anything more eloquent. 'What the... what the hell is this? Some kind of trick?'

'It's alright, Damar, we're not the Bureau,' his former commander told him. 'You can come out now.'

Oh, that voice, that man who'd taught him everything, then used him and kept him in the dark and betrayed him and left him with all this – it made something in him snap, and he threw himself out of the hole and rushed at Dukat, so incensed that he clean forgot he had a phaser in his hand.

'I saw you _die, _you bastard, how dare you even _think_ about coming back!' he yelled as he knocked the other man down. All dignity gone, they rolled around on the floor in a tangle of limbs and punching and shouting and mindless, unfocused fury. Dukat was taller, but Damar had made the first move and, gods help him, if Entek and Ghemor hadn't pulled him off he would have beaten his former gul to a pulp as the months of humiliation and endurance and food shortages and isolation and paranoia and endless uphill struggle broke out of him like a geyser.

'Enough!' Ghemor shouted, her voice cracked and hoarse as she hung onto one of Damar's arms while Entek gripped the other. Dukat lay on the floor, gasping for breath through a bloody nose.

'What d'you mean, how dare I think about coming back?' he said indistinctly. 'I escaped from a Starfleet prison, rushed all the way here to help you fight the Dominion, and the first thing you do is try to kill me?'

'You wanted to save Cardassia?' Damar spat, still furious. 'That's why you decided your personal life was more important than winning the war and left me holding the bag, huh? Well, if that's your idea of help...!'

'He's got a point, Dukat,' Ghemor remarked as Dukat got to his feet stiffly, cast about him for a second or two, then sighed and tore off some of his sleeve to staunch his nose-bleed.

'Oh, so all this is _my _fault, as usual,' he muttered, pinching his nose with the strip of cloth. 'May I remind you, _Major,_ that if you had gone along with my original plan in the first place instead of obstructing me at every turn, we'd have won by now!'

Damar froze, a horrible suspicion burgeoning in his mind. Had the Bureau been telling the truth after all? And if not, then who exactly had he been working with all this time?

'What did you call her?'

Dukat and the woman supposedly called Iliana Ghemor stared at each other for a second, then she cursed and shook her head, turning to Damar and indicating her ravaged face.

'I can't believe I fooled you for this long. I was expecting you to know right away.'

He looked at a Bajoran nose and Cardassian eyeridges, skin and scales, hair which was short and red instead of long and black. And, all at once, he saw what, or rather _who,_ he had been looking at all this time. It hit him like a bucket of ice water in the face. Iliana Ghemor was not being disguised as Kira Nerys. Iliana Ghemor didn't exist.

But Kira Nerys did.

'The Bureau were right,' he exclaimed. 'You really are a Bajoran spy!'

'Of course they were right,' Dukat said flatly. 'They knew all along. How? Because there's a Founder in Starfleet Intelligence, with whom I discussed the idea of a Cardassian uprising as an alternative to giving him tactical information – without realising he was a Founder, of course. "Iliana Ghemor" was my idea, and needless to say it didn't quite turn out the way I intended,' Dukat finished bitterly. Kira knew that was as close as Dukat ever got to admitting it really was his fault. And she could see from his face that it was a difficult confession; she wondered if she should be pleased. Pleased that he was uncomfortable, or pleased that he'd admitted it?

'So Ghemor – Kira, I mean – is from Starfleet Intelligence, but sent by a Founder?' Damar said slowly, looking incredulous. 'Why go to all the trouble? Why such an elaborate set-up?'

'Bajor,' Dukat answered swiftly. 'The "unmasking" of a spy proves that Bajor has broken the terms of the non-aggression pact. That effectively gives Weyoun and Broca leave to attack it, and Starfleet can't do anything to protect it without pulling ships out of other sectors. Once the Dominion take Bajor, which they undoubtedly will, that gives them access to the wormhole. The only thing stopping them now is Sisko's people on Terok Nor...'

'And us,' Kira finished for him, suddenly incredibly sure about what she had to do. She stared at Damar's face, forcing him to look at her mangled disguise.

'So I'm not Iliana Ghemor. But does that really matter? I came here to teach you people how to rebel against your rulers, and in all honesty I think a Resistance fighter is slightly better qualified to do that than an Obsidian agent. You need me, Damar, never mind who I am. You need all of us.'

Damar looked at her for a long, long time, and even Dukat did not dare interrupt. Finally Damar shook his head and sighed.

'Alright. Entek and I will try and get some people together. We need a new plan.'

He and Entek disappeared, and Kira abruptly realised she was alone with Dukat; Bashir was still busy tending to Garak, and Odo was nowhere to be seen. She looked at Dukat, who was sitting on a crate staring off into the middle distance. His face was unreadable, or it would have been if she didn't know him so well.

'You were right,' he said tonelessly. 'He's certainly not my Damar any more. All this is going to take a little getting used to.'

'I wouldn't bother thinking about it too much,' she answered, though she could tell he was upset. 'We've got more important things to concentrate on, like not getting killed.'

The conversation she swore she wouldn't have with him until this was all over had raised its head, and it was feeding off the sadness on his face. He'd saved her twice now. Of course, if she was going to weigh and measure it like that, eye for eye and tooth for tooth, he still owed her people more than it was possible to repay in a lifetime. But one man's body could not be compared to a whole culture, and he only had so many pounds of flesh to give. She couldn't think of it like that. All she could think of was how she'd felt after he'd been shot. She'd felt bereft.

And he had a right to know that. No matter how much he owed her.

'Dukat,' she said to him, still not daring to use his first name although she probably should by now. It just wasn't... right.

'Yes?'

'After all this is over, where will... ' she hesitated, then forced it out: 'Where will we go?'

He grinned at her, though there were still shadows in his eyes.

'Assuming we survive against all the odds, you mean?'

'No, I mean after we're dead, _obviously, _because I really need to ask someone like you about the afterlife,'she retorted, and the brief return to the old cut-and-thrust banter they'd always had was strangely enjoyable. He smirked.

'Ha. Well, I imagine you'll go back to Terok Nor, and I'll probably be arrested by Starfleet again and spend the rest of my life in the coldest, most boring place in the Federation due to that farce they call justice. Unless Sisko puts in a good word for me, which I doubt he will... And I do admire your use of "we," Nerys, but it may not be appropriate in this context. Shame, really. I could get used to it.'

He was being flippant, but Kira knew that it was a disguise, because she could see right through it. There'd be no place for him here, even if he lived, and certainly not on Bajor or in the Federation. Not that she could see him asking Starfleet for asylum. No, he'd burned his own boats, voluntarily or not, and he was going to have to live with it. She went over and sat close beside him, not caring that her face hurt when he kissed her, or that he was cold and too bony and needed a wash, because was too busy realising that she almost wanted to live with it too. More than almost, as he held onto her, his smell and taste and the feel of his skin shutting out everything else until all she could think about was how much she'd missed him, without really acknowledging it. She'd known the first time that they could never go back from here, so why bother?

Besides, she told herself, he owes me, and he can't repay me if he's not around.

She knew it was a lousy justification. Maybe someday she'd find a better one. Just... not now.

* * *

><p>'Will you come and visit me when I'm in prison?' he asked a little while later, half-teasing, voice muffled by the back of her neck. They lay in the first place they'd stumbled into, too dizzy and crushed together for rational thinking – an alcove off the main room on a horribly hard mattress, the two of them all bones and sore, sickly-looking in the feeble glow of a bastardised emergency lamp stuck to the wall. But his cool skin against the heat of her injuries, the familiar smell of him, the way he curled himself so close around her in the heavy, sweet aftermath as if he couldn't bear not to be touching her, made it impossible for her to answer no. The world had gone to hell outside, but, just for now, she was safe in here, so long as neither of them acknowledged that this could be the last time. Just like the last time. And it probably always would feel this way. She twisted around in his arms and looked up at him, the shadows cast on his face by the lamp making her look as scarred as she was.<p>

'I guess so,' she told him. 'But I won't bring you any kanar.'

He laughed softly, held her tighter, and she hid from the world for just a little longer. And just like last time, it wasn't enough. But it was all they had.


	17. The Hand That Feeds

**A/N: **Gah. Sorry. My excuse this time is that I'm rushing to finish a piece of music by the end of the week (about the sinking of the Titanic to mark the centennial thing, if anyone particularly cares), plus the usual disorganisation, crappy internet and strange working hours that plague my existence.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I know I'm sloppy about updating this monster and God only knows when it'll be finished, but I'm delighted to see people sticking with it. Rest assured, it will not become a Dead Fic. Updating may be irregular, but it _will _happen.

**A/N Supplemental: **loxKardasia, there's a reply to your question below...

**17: THE HAND THAT FEEDS**

_Can you get up off your knees?_

_Are you brave enough to see?_

_Do you want to change it?_

– _Nine Inch Nails_

Sisko had never seen DS9 more on edge than it was at the moment. Not when the Dominion first appeared, not when the Klingons attacked, not even when Cardassia allied with the Founders. This was worse than all of those times. Probably the overcrowding didn't help; as soon as Weyoun and Broca declared war on Bajor, Command had begun sending as many reinforcements as they could possibly spare, and the station was bursting at the seams with hastily-redeployed Starfleet crews, extra Bajoran personnel (a move which Sisko questioned the wisdom of, considering the Dominion were aiming for the planet, but he hadn't had the time or the energy to bring it up with the Provisional Government) as well as all Martok's people, who'd been there since they retook the station almost four months ago. He'd considered sending the Bajoran civilians back to the surface, but that would hardly be any safer if DS9 got destroyed. A few had left already, gone to Lissepia or Xepolite or anywhere that would take them, but most had stayed put and to be honest he didn't blame them. Uprooting them again, whether or not it turned out to be for their own good, sounded too much like what Dukat used to do.

It also didn't help that Odo wasn't here. True, he was awkwardly easy to associate with the Founders, but nobody on the station could argue that they needed his cool head and analytical mind right now. There had been too many scuffles in corridors, too much tension, too many frayed tempers. Especially amongst the remaining Security staff, who were the only ones outside of the command crew who'd been told about the Sloan situation. Sisko had decided it would create too much panic if everyone else knew as well, and the last thing they needed was more hysteria in a confined space.

Worse still was the way Command had rebuffed him when he'd tried to alert them about Sloan; considering it was Dukat's word against theirs, he'd not expected them to believe him straight off, but he'd hoped they'd at least think about it. But instead Nechayev had accused him, point blank, of seeing Founders everywhere since the incident with the Bashir-changeling, and Admiral Ross, with whom he usually got along very well, was slightly more sympathetic but said that there was no real evidence on which to base the accusation. Of coursethere's no damn evidence, Sisko thought furiously. That's the whole reason Founders are so dangerous, because they can be anywhere and any_one_ without leaving a scrap of evidence behind. The only evidence is that Kira's been caught and the Dominion somehow have a fleet ready and waiting to attack Bajor even though they only found out who she was a few days ago. Even the Jem'Hadar can't build that fast; it has to be an inside job. Which means Dukat's right.

So he'd given up trying to talk to them about it, and instead simply followed his orders, resolving to take matters into his own hands if and when those orders became unfollowable.

He was expecting that to happen relatively soon.

He just hoped Bashir, Odo and Dukat could get Kira and Garak back before the State dispensed its irreversible justice. He would have heard by now if they'd been killed, wouldn't he? Weyoun would have undoubtedly sent some sort of gloating message, and even if they didn't, the Cardassians wouldn't pass up the opportunity for a good gloat. No, he'd know by now. Everyone would know by now. But instead he was sat here, knowing nothing, presiding over a station full of jittery, panicky people, any one of whom could be the changeling that was presently calling itself Sloan.

'I don't like it, Benjamin,' Jadzia announced without preamble as she came into his office. 'This place is like a hornets' nest waiting to be kicked.'

Sisko looked up at her. She'd been pulling double shifts all week and it showed; her eyes had dark circles, her usually glossy hair was lank and untidy, and he could feel the slump in her shoulders matching the stiffness in his own, the product of far too many hours sat hunched over monitors endlessly checking and rechecking facts and figures, trying to figure out their next move.

'I know, Old Man, I know. But Sloan has to show up sooner or later, and we're ready for him. Any word from Command?'

'Same as last time: just hold position and be prepared, which sounds to me like they don't know what they're doing. Worf's out in the Defiant doing long range sensor sweeps of the Denorius Belt, and Miles went down to Bajor to help them rig up some shield generators at the emergency sites.'

'Then there's nothing more we can do. We'll just have to wait and see what happens,' Sisko answered, with a calmness he did not feel. And it had better happen soon, he added in the privacy of his own mind, otherwise this place is going to tear itself to pieces.

* * *

><p>Kira knew the dreams would be bad – they always were after something like that – but waking up endlessly in that hot darkness, tangled in musty sheets, sweating and shaking and feeling the skin on her face being stripped off over and over again by Madred, and worst of all the constant replaying of the moment she realised Bajor was doomed because she'd failed her mission – it was unbearable. Eventually she couldn't stand it any longer, and she got out of bed, leaving Dukat curled up in a ball with the covers over his head, no doubt exhausted after she'd woken him innumerable times with her shouting and thrashing about. She knew, in a deep and uncomfortable way, that some of the things that had been done to her were not so very far from things he'd allowed to happen, if not officially sanctioned, during the Occupation, but he was there. He was there, he was gentle and she was too tired and sore and upset to think about their tangled past – so she clung to him unreservedly now nobody could see, and that voice of his she'd used to hate so much felt like a lifeline that pulled her out of the bad dreams she was drowning in. A lifeline was just something you grabbed onto when you were going under, after all. Nobody said you had to think about it afterwards.<p>

There was still no way she could get back to sleep, even if she wanted to, so instead she left the little alcove and went over to where Bashir was still sitting up, one dim light burning as he kept watch on Garak. Damar and Entek were not yet back from wherever they had gone, but as she approached Odo materialised from the corner, unfolding himself through the darkness like a ripple. She knew he knew where she'd slept and it made her slightly ashamed, though not as much as it should have done. She wondered where he'd gone earlier, but didn't feel like she could ask.

'How's Garak doing?' she asked him softly, taking the easy way in – talking about a third person to avoid talking about each other, when she could just as easily have asked Bashir.

'Asleep, for now,' Odo answered. 'Are you alright?'

'I've been better.'

The words dried up so quickly now, when they used to flow so well – the two of them used to talk for days on end. She wondered why he came here at all. Wouldn't he have been more use back on DS9 with Sisko? She'd always known what he was thinking before; that smooth face of his was an open book to her. But now, as she looked at his familiar eyes, she found them blank and empty.

'What's Sloan doing, Odo? What's his next move?'

It could be almost anything. The real Sloan seemed to be virtually untouchable; intelligence officers were the ones who rooted out spies, after all. Who'd dare question the man who asks the questions? It would be like Madred being a dissident, and she didn't know whether to laugh or shiver at that.

'How would I know, Nerys?' Odo snapped and he sounded upset. Kira looked blankly at him.

'How would you know? You're a changeling too, aren't you? You've at least got some insight into how his mind works!'

'I may be a changeling. But I'm no Founder,' he muttered angrily. 'Sisko and Dukat think he's going to show up at DS9 when the Jem'Hadar and Cardassian fleets arrive, then try to sabotage the minefield under cover of the fighting. By now he knows that Dukat has warned Sisko, and I expect he's heard from Weyoun about your escape too. If we want to stop him doing that, we'll have to get his attention over here. We'll have to do something that Weyoun or Broca can't deal with.'

'Would a revolution do the trick?' Kira quipped, suddenly feeling that awkward corner in their conversation turn and become almost their old camaraderie. If only every conversation could be about what they had to do, rather than what they'd already done.

'Anything chaotic and noisy enough would do it. As long as it disrupts the order of things, he'll start paying attention.'

'Blow something up, then. It's not like I'm a stranger to bombing Cardassians, after all.'

What she really wanted to do was kill Madred. She knew Garak had suffered more, but she didn't care. Her inner terrorist wanted revenge. For Mila. For everyone who had tried to make a difference to this twisted, screwed-up society but ended up dying in those cells. For everyone who had never dared to try and change things. For all the people who'd got caught up in the evidence broadcast, whose only crime was reading the wrong thing at the wrong time.

But mainly for Mila.

* * *

><p>Kira found that Rusot's look of horror as he saw her botched face was almost worth the pain of it all, when he crept furtively through the door next morning. She'd seen him staring at her before, and his evident shock at the discovery that he'd been unwittingly lusting after a Bajoran afforded her a strange kind of schadenfreude. She smiled sweetly at him, aware that it made her look even more alarming.<p>

'Damar, are you aware there's a Bajoran spy in this room?' he sneered once he'd got over his initial surprise. His eyes slid to Dukat. 'Oh, and a traitor too. I thought you were dead, Dukat. You certainly _look _dead. And as for you, Obsidian, gods only know what _you _look like...'

'Ah, Rusot! I didn't realise you were the revolutionary type,' Dukat interrupted with his familiar evil grin; Kira was ever so slightly delighted to see him going at someone she hated, so she didn't bother to shake his arm loose when it slid round her waist. Dukat smirked at Rusot.

'I would have thought you'd be after my old job. Or have you run out of people who'll help you bribe your way to the top?'

'You're a fine one to talk about bribing your way to the top, Dukat! If you hadn't sold us all into Dominion slavery, we wouldn't have to be here at all!'

'You're right. We'd be dead. If that's what you'd have preferred, allow me to remedy the situation. And you don't even have to bribe me, which I'm sure is a novel experience for you...'

Kira caught Damar's eye, and felt a rare wave of sympathy for the man as he shook his head disgustedly. She shoved her way past Dukat and stood between him and Rusot, who had squared up to each other, two very different-looking men with exactly the same expression on their faces.

'For the last time, we are here to fight the Dominion, _not each other!' _she ground out. 'If you two want to have a punch-up over who's the slimiest bastard, you can damn well do it in your own time!'

'That won't be necessary,' Rusot muttered with bad grace, while Dukat merely looked smug as only he could. Kira made sure to elbow him hard in the side as she went to sit next to Damar, who nodded thanks to her as he stood up.

'As everyone here can no doubt see,' he announced without preamble, 'the game has changed. We've got different players, but the stakes are much higher and we're running out of time. We need a new strategy, and we need it fast.'

'And it's got to be something big,' Kira added, still thinking about the conversation she and Odo had the previous night. 'Something that everyone will feel the impact of.'

Like Gallitep, she thought, remembering the astonishment with which they'd all looked at Shakaar when he suggested it. It hadn't felt like the turning point of the Occupation at the time, not in that mess of dirt and blood and starving half-dead workers; it was only afterwards that they'd dared to think about the magnitude of what they'd done. Was there something that could be the Cardassians' Gallitep?

'We could assassinate Broca,' Dukat mused. 'Though I'm sure Weyoun will just find some other spineless sycophant to take his place. You know, Rusot, you might get that promotion after all!'

Even before Rusot could react, Damar slammed the point of his dagger right into the table an inch from Dukat's hand; Dukat leapt back in alarm as Damar rounded on him.

'Would you _shut up _for once in your life!' Damar shouted. 'You're not running the show here any more, you know!'

'That's probably just as well,' announced Garak's voice from the doorway, and everyone's heads whipped round to face him. He looked pale and strung-out, and didn't bother to disguise that he was clinging unashamedly to Odo's shoulder to stay upright.

'Finished dying, have you?' Dukat snapped, but he looked rather shocked, whether by Damar's outburst or Garak's sudden appearance Kira wasn't sure.

'Oh, no, I'll probably go back to it in a minute or two,' Garak answered as he sat down shakily. 'I know the doctor told me not to get up, but I couldn't help overhearing. Odo and I think we may have an idea.'

'This had better be good, Garak,' Damar muttered. 'We've got enough to do without your games.'

'Really, this is no game, despite what you said in your rather trite opening speech. Now, it strikes me that what we really need is a _gesture. _Something big, that'll get everyone's attention back onto us and, if possible, delay the launch of that fleet, which should give Sisko's people more time to catch up with Sloan. In fact, if I'm right, this should cause enough trouble to bring Sloan here himself, in which case we'll have all the voles in one nest.'

'Oh yes? What's this gesture, then?'

'I never thought I'd say this, but the thing we've got to do is attack the Bureau. Moreover, we've got to destroy it.'

There was no trace of flippancy in his tone this time; his face was hard and bitter and everyone stared at him for a long time. Damar was thunderstruck, Dukat looked like he was barely holding in laughter, and Rusot's eyes fairly bulging out of his head.

'Are you insane?' he exclaimed. 'They'll kill us!'

'Oh, and half a dozen other things won't kill us just the same? A raid on Korma IV, perhaps?' Kira sniped back at him. She didn't know why she hadn't thought of it herself – perhaps because the Bureau loomed far too large in her mind for her to ever think of it as a target rather than a threat. Prophets only knew how Garak felt about it. But he was right: the main thing stopping people from rebelling openly was fear of what the Bureau would do to them in return. Therefore destroying the Bureau would be enormously symbolic, as well as being practical. It was, in fact, the Cardassian Gallitep. Provided, of course, that they could pull it off.

'I agree with Garak. Damar, you wanted a big gesture? Well, you've got one. We're going to blow up the Bureau. And we're going to do it soon.'

Rusot began to protest about the fact that he'd been proposing to blow things up all along and nobody had listened to him, but Kira ignored him, and scowled at Dukat's surprised grin.

'You're _good_ at this, Nerys,' he exclaimed. 'No wonder you gave me the runaround for so many years during the Occupation!'

'Yeah, and you're not good at this,' she cut him off before the Occupation raised its ugly head again. 'So in the future, shut your trap unless you've got something useful to say.'

And give me five minutes together to get my head around what we're doing, she added in her head as she turned back to Damar.

'Alright. Any of you know how to make a bomb?'

'I do,' Garak announced, 'but you'll have to give me a couple of days before my hands stop shaking. Ugly as this place is, I prefer it intact.'

'What's all this, the gunpowder plot?' Bashir's sleepy voice broke in as he appeared in the doorway. Rusot looked disgusted, and no one got the reference anyway.

'What the hell is _he _doing here?' Rusot sneered. 'Really, Damar, isn't an ex-Founder, a Bajoran and two traitors enough?'

Several jaws clenched. Sometimes Kira really wished Rusot wasn't on their side.

'Shut up, Rusot,' Damar gritted. 'Entek, do you know anyone who'll give us a few tons of explosives?'

'Raid the Second Order depot again,' Garak suggested, and Kira kicked Dukat in the shins automatically as he got up with a splutter of outrage. Entek grinned.

'Maybe. Odo, I'll need your help. Everyone else is too well-known, and... well, you can be anyone.'

'Yes. Unfortunately, so can the other side. We'll have to be careful.'

They prepared to leave, and Kira began to teach the rest of them how to make the crude, dangerous little time bombs that had been the mainstay of the Shakaar cell during the Occupation. Dukat recognised them – in fact, he'd had more than one narrow escape from them on Terok Nor – but he said nothing, merely concentrated on hacking a length of waste duct into six-inch tubes. The might of the Cardassian infantry, defeated by a bunch of farmers and monks armed with these things. He knew Kira recognised the irony now – but if they got away with it, it would cease to be merely irony, it would be _history, _and that was no laughing matter. Was this how the Shakaar felt when they attacked him? It was not a very comfortable thought.

But he was on the other side of it this time, and that was really something.

* * *

><p><strong>Addendum #4 for loxKardasia:<strong>

Alright, I'll be honest with you. Sorry to put the kibosh on your creativity and all (not to mention how bloody long it took me to answer) but I think you'll have a tough time trying to pull that off without it seeming contrived/cliché. Here's why:

Is a panic attack really necessary to make Garak think things over? Consider what's happened to him by the end of the 2-parter: he's lost Tain (or so he thinks), he's lost his career, he had to torture Odo, he's just seen thousands of his countrymen destroyed – and all because they fell for a Founder trick, which is even more humiliating. In your timeline, of course, he's also lost Nira before he even had a chance to find her properly. And now he's had to crawl back to DS9 and carry on hemming pants in a bombed-out shop for the rest of his days, with no hope of ever regaining his place in Cardassian society... IMHO the poor bugger's got enough on his plate already without getting himself stuck in a closet or something!

Besides, I thought Nira was the one with the feelings? Why is she now completely oblivious? Unless of course you mean once she meets him again, she has no idea what realisations he's come to. In which case, seeing her again, coupled with the utter misery of the situation, must make Garak eventually think "OK, right, enough of this, I'm not going to miss any more chances especially now I've got nothing left to lose." But he'd still play it pretty safe, and I expect she'd be very suspicious that it's another trick.

Don't get disheartened by this - I think you're absolutely on the right lines with making Garak have a kind of rather gloomy epiphany, but it's just that the circumstances need a little tweaking. Good luck!


	18. Call The Ships To Port

**A/N: **This chapter was supposed to cover more ground, but it got so long that I've had to split it into two. Therefore I apologise if this one feels slightly filler-ish, but Part 2 should be up by the end of the week, since it's nearly all written.

**A/N Supplemental:** LoxKardasia, there's another note for you at the end answering your question.

**18: CALL THE SHIPS TO PORT**

_Tonight we light the fires_

_We call the ships to port_

_Tonight we walk on water_

_And tomorrow we'll be gone_

– _Covenant_

Eight people against the entire State. Kira had heard stories about what it was like in the first days of the Bajoran Resistance, when it had just gone past the stage of being an idea whispered in cellars by a few brave souls and actually taken on physical form: the sense of overwhelming odds must have felt like this. Eight people, one of whom wasn't even participating in the raid and one who insisted on participating even though he was nowhere near well enough. The only ones she remotely felt like including were Damar and Entek. Dukat was no use at sneaking about, and she didn't even want to think about all the complicated things she'd feel if something happened to him. Rusot was too unreliable, Garak was too sick, and Odo was too... she wasn't sure what he was, but she didn't want him there – maybe because she was worried about what would happen, or maybe because she wasn't worried enough. It took a certain kind of bloody-mindedness to do something like this, and Odo didn't have it. Damar and Entek, on the other hand, had it in spades, and more to the point they'd accepted that she knew what she was doing better than any of them. She tried not to think of that as vanity. It was necessity. And she only had that unhappy experience thanks to the Occupation...

She was grateful for the burst of sound from the other end of the room that distracted her from thinking about that; it sounded as though Entek and Odo had returned with the promised explosives. She quickly got up from the alcove in which she'd been hiding to avoid Rusot and Dukat's constant bickering, and came out into the main space.

'Will these do?' Odo asked, tossing her a canister of something that looked like the dynamite that the Cardassians used to use for blast mining on Bajor, horrible caustic stuff that made a huge amount of noise and smoke. That was exactly what they wanted – they wanted a big messy spectacle that left nothing to the imagination, and even had that hint of Bajor that smacked of heterodoxy; unlike last time with the fake evidence, this time they wanted everyone to know that Kantar en I'las were behind it. So much so, in fact, that Damar was going to appear in public, for the first time in months, to claim responsibility. Kira grinned, feeling her inner terrorist sharpen its teeth and claws.

'Exactly what I had in mind. The rest of you get the tubes packed, I'll rig up the fuses.'

They'd worked it out, despite rather a lot of arguing and panicking, and come up with a relatively simple if horribly risky plan. They'd use lots of small bombs planted all over the building, because if one failed it wouldn't matter so much, and they'd leave a reasonably long time before the first ones started to go off. Kira felt horrible about the fact that there would still be prisoners in the cells at the time, mostly those who'd got caught in the evidence plan which backfired so badly, but a rescue mission was simply not possible – 'and besides,' Dukat remarked unkindly, 'what's the guarantee that they'll take up arms to help their liberators once they've been freed?'

'You think they'll just go home?' Kira snorted, cutting off a length of fuse wire and wrapping it carefully around the head of a tube. 'You think they'll just keep their heads down and make themselves scarce?'

Dukat put down the half-finished bomb he was working on and looked at her sadly, shaking his head.

'I thought you knew how it works around here. The reason they're in there in the first place is because they _didn't _keep their heads down and make themselves scarce last time. If they've got any sense, they're not about to do the same thing again.'

'If my Resistance comrades and I had done that during the Occupation, you'd still be Prefect,' she said sharply. 'But then I guess that's the difference between my people and yours.'

She said it with the aim of getting a rise out of him, but it didn't work; he held her gaze coolly, neither smiling nor scowling, and offered no return fire. Instead he said,

'Maybe so. But we're not so very different, you know. We all have a breaking point, same as you do. It's just that people here who allow themselves to reach that point don't tend to live very long.'

'Then it's time they got the chance, whether they choose to take it or not,' Damar cut in. 'We're not leaving them in there. We're the other side, so we have to behave like it.'

'Are you mad?' exclaimed Rusot. 'We've got enough to deal with already, without some damn fool jailbreak that's bound to go wrong! Whatever this plan is, I want no part of it!'

'I hate to admit it, but I agree with Rusot,' Dukat said. 'They can't be helped, we don't have the time. And how are we supposed to get inside?'

'Apart from through the holes we've just blown in the walls, you mean?' Odo asked dryly. 'I dare say I can help there, but we'll need to be quick. How many people are we talking about?'

'There could be hundreds, we'd never manage it,' Rusot argued. 'This is ridiculous! We've got the opportunity of a lifetime in which to smash the Bureau, and we're wasting time worrying about the poor idiots who've got themselves stuck in there? They should be proud to die for the cause!'

'We're trying to free Cardassia, aren't we?' Damar pointed out. 'Then why not start there? Dukat, how many did you put in there during your administration?'

'How would I know? I was the military leader, not the justice minister!' Dukat answered tetchily, though Kira could tell from his face that he was thinking hard, and not entirely happy with the conclusions he was coming to.

'Ah, Gul Dukat and his _exemplary_ attention to detail,' Rusot sneered. Dukat glared at him, and Kira could tell that this argument was going to degenerate into yet another slanging match – something they didn't have time for. It was obvious that Dukat and Rusot simply didn't understand what kind of message freeing those prisoners would send to both Cardassian society and the Dominion, and it was equally obvious that Damar and Entek understood all too well. She wondered what Garak would think about it, then realised she would never, ever know what Garak really thought about anything.

'That's it, I've had enough,' she snapped. 'If you two are too chickenshit, you can just stay here and have the same stupid arguments over and over again while we do the mission without you. And in the future, when people ask you what you did to fight the Dominion, you can tell them that you stayed home. How _inspiring._'

She knew she wasn't being fair, but she didn't care; when Cardassians were involved, life was never fair, and she'd learned that quite often a jab to the ego was far more effective than an appeal to their non-existent sense of honour and decency. Dukat shook his head wearily.

'Fine, fine, count me in,' he muttered. 'But when it goes wrong – and trust me, it _will _– don't say I didn't warn you.'

'Well, I'm not doing it,' Rusot spat. 'If you all want to get yourselves killed for the sake of a few idiots who can't stay ahead of the Bureau, then go ahead, but I'm not that stupid!'

'Rusot, you're being – ' Damar snarled, but Kira cut him off, rounding on Rusot. They were better off without him, probably, but his bull-headed stubbornness butting up against her own had raised her hackles too much to let it go. She glared at him.

'OK Rusot, have it your way. If you want to switch sides, we won't stop you. But don't expect any mercy when we win.'

'Mercy from you, Obsidian? I wouldn't _dream _of it,' he hissed, and stalked off; she heard his footsteps clump up the stairs, then the door banging shut. He knew enough to ruin everything, if he decided to sell them out; she knew she'd been right to doubt him, never mind what Damar said.

'Entek, go after him,' Damar said worriedly, looking at the empty stairs as if he half-expected Rusot to come back down them. 'Try and talk him round, he usually listens to you.'

'Oh, forget him, Damar!' Dukat scoffed as Entek hurried off. 'Good riddance, is what I say. And even he's not stupid enough to tell the Bureau, because that'll implicate him.'

'But what if he does?' Odo countered. 'True, it'll get Weyoun's attention, and may even bring Sloan out of hiding, but at what cost? My people are not forgiving to those who defy them.'

'And Cardassians are?' Kira snorted. Her remark earned her an amused-annoyed sigh from Dukat, but she ignored him, concentrating on what she had to say next. Part of her didn't want to say it, because it brought them yet another step closer to the horrible end they'd undoubtedly meet, but the inner terrorist drowned it out with dreams of explosions and Madred's bloody corpse. She shrugged.

'Well, we've got no choice any more. We have to do it before Rusot has a chance to rat us out. Which means now. Tonight.'

'Tonight?' Dukat spluttered. 'We're not ready! It's bad enough that we're doing this at all, but going off half-cocked without any kind of contingency plan? That's suicide.'

'Right, because waiting until Rusot betrays us _isn't _suicide? I'd rather die out there than in here!'

'Enough arguing,' Damar announced. 'I agree with Kira. We leave at sunset.'

'But that only gives us an hour or so! It's too soon!' Dukat protested. Kira glared at him.

'So there's really no time to waste listening to you complain, is there? Now shut up and help.'

Dukat looked deeply unhappy, but sighed and turned to Damar, his bitter expression indicating his distate for playing assistant to his former subordinate.

'Very well. What do you need me to do?'

* * *

><p>Kira approached Bashir and Garak's corner in a hurry, the words already half-way out of her mouth:<p>

'Garak, Julian, we've got to – '

She stopped, embarrassed, as she saw what she'd walked in on: Garak curled up in a tangle of blankets, his hands covering his face like he was trying to blot out the world, and the doctor patting his back and telling him it would be alright, but Garak didn't seem to be listening. He looked like a man in his own private hell – and worse than that, a man who was aware and ashamed of what he looked like in that hell. It made for uncomfortable viewing.

'What's happening?' she asked Bashir, who sighed and led her round the corner to talk.

'It's the nightmares,' he answered shortly. 'He's been like this for nearly an hour now. He just can't stop thinking about it.'

'How is he otherwise?'

'Physically he's over the worst of it, but I don't even want to speculate about his state of mind.'

Bashir looked exhausted; and since they'd arrived here he'd barely left Garak's side except for a couple of hours' sleep when the rest of them were plotting, but Kira couldn't afford to have any sympathy for either of them.

'I've got some news he may like. Can I talk to him?'

'News, what news – Oh no,' Bashir exclaimed, suddenly realising what she meant. 'You're going after the Bureau, aren't you? Right now. And you need his help.'

'We need everyone's help. The only reason you're not coming too is because we need someone here to put us back together if we come home in pieces.'

'Nerys, he can't go back there. Look at him!'

'So you're not even going to give him the option. Don't you think he'd want revenge for what they did to him? Wouldn't you, if you were him? Or would you just run away and let them win?'

'That's not fair, Nerys,' Bashir said hotly. 'I'm not having you trying to guilt-trip him into going with you against his better judgement, he's got enough to deal with as it is!'

Kira narrowly restrained herself from punching Bashir – Prophets, how could anyone be so stupidly obstructive when there was so much at stake – and glared hard at him instead, but somehow ended up just gaping as understanding dawned. Bashir looked the same as he did when he came back from the Jem'Hadar prison camp; tired and grim and sort of old-young, but with a purpose and grit that she couldn't define at the time positively brimming out of his eyes. Now she knew: that purpose was Garak. Whatever the relationship was between the two men, it was obviously more complicated than she'd thought.

'This isn't about him at all, is it?' she said softly. 'This is about you. You don't want him to go in case something happens to him.'

Bashir didn't deny it, but looked at the floor slightly guiltily, and Kira shook her head.

'Give him a chance, Julian. For Mila's sake, at least. Besides,' she added, trying for a grin even though neither of them felt remotely cheerful, 'he's Cardassian, and you know how they are about surviving things that would kill the likes of us ten times over. He'll come back.'

Bashir gave her a weak sort of smile and motioned for her to precede him back round the corner.

'I hope you're right, Nerys. I really do.'

Garak was now rolled up tightly in the blankets, facing the wall, and barely moved at the sound of her approach.

'Garak,' she said. 'We need your help on this mission, and we need it now.'

'I'm afraid I'm not much use to anyone at the moment,' he answered flatly, and this brutal honesty sounded so unlike his usual slick and urbane self that she was quite shocked.

'Alright then, _Cardassia_ needs your help. Does that make it any better?'

'Not really. You see, if we go to the Bureau and I have another of those attacks, then I might lose control and endanger the mission. Besides, we're woefully under-prepared, aren't we?'

'Yeah, that's what Dukat said,' she grumbled. She honestly hadn't meant to goad him by saying that, but he turned round and stared at her, looking like a man who has just found maybe not the door out of hell but at least a map telling him where it is. His skin looked pale and stretched, his eyes rather bloodshot, but there was a mirthless grin on his face. She was once again struck by the ability of Cardassians to internalise their emotions so thoroughly that it was hard to tell they existed at all. Not to mention the almost overwhelming predilection with scoring points off their oldest enemies. Fighting for your country was all very well, but thumbing your nose at your hated rival was apparently what really mattered. She would never understand these people.

'Well, in that case I'd be delighted to help in whatever capacity I'm capable of,' Garak said, and began to drag himself out of the blankets, his hands still slightly shaky but a vast improvement on what they were before. 'After all, I do seem to have a quite a large score to settle with Madred...'

'If it comes down to it, we'll let you finish him off. We're leaving in an hour – d'you think you can be ready by then?'

'I'll have to be, won't I?'

* * *

><p>As Entek piloted the cramped skimmer down the congested main approach to Lakat City, Kira felt like one of the bombs they'd loaded precariously in the back, her nerves so stretched that one tiny jolt could set her off in a riot of noise and smoke and destruction. They'd planned it all out: Entek was the getaway driver, Odo would start the slowest, biggest bombs right by the main doors, then run outside and let off a firecracker to signal what he'd done – and get the attention of the people in the square. Garak and Damar would set the other bombs, while Kira and Dukat, as the two thinnest people, had the unenviable task of squeezing into the ventilation system via the ducts on the roof and finding their way down into the bowels of the building to shut the power off, which would disable all the forcefields. By then the bomb on the back wall should have gone off, so they could lead the prisoners out that way.<p>

Garak had drawn out a rough plan of the building, including what he could remember of the air ducts and maintenance tunnels, but it was by no means exact or comprehensive and there was no way of telling how many guards or surveillance devices they'd encounter. They'd also decided against rifles, because once the first shot was fired they'd have no hope of staying undetected. Therefore knives, dark corners and not wasting a second of the allotted fifteen minutes was the order of the day. It was horribly risky, it was bound to go wrong somewhere – in fact, it felt like being in the Resistance again, a nerve-jangling mixture of fear, adrenaline and urgency. It felt... _familiar_.

She adjusted the black scarf over her face which covered everything but her eyes, wiped her clammy palms on her knees and sat back to await the end of the journey. And she didn't bother to pray. The Prophets would never hear her from here.

* * *

><p><strong>Addendum #5 for LoxKardasia:<strong>

I definitely think that the simple nostalgia/thinking things over works better than any kind of external agent in this case. He's got a lot on his mind, so take that and run with it. Maybe not direct flashbacks – if you're not careful it can look a bit like you're struggling for material and simply duplicating earlier stuff to make up space – but framing the events of the earlier chapters in his mind, going over what's happened, what his future looks like and generally thinking about what a horrible mess he's in would be more than enough to make him come to a few realisations.

Also, I think he would have _seen _the obvious, and even seen why he didn't do anything about it – he did make a career out of seeing things, after all – but the point is that he didn't do anything about it, when he should have just defied all his training and gone for it anyway. He's regretting being careless enough to develop feelings for Nira at all, but at the same time he's regretting _not_ being careless enough to act on them while he still had the opportunity. You know, every cloud has a silver lining and all (maybe Bashir could have told him that once and he laughed, but now it comes back to haunt him) and he's realised that he got the cloud but missed the lining...

By the way, will I ever get to see this fic of yours? It sounds like it's really going well, I'd be interested to read it one day.


	19. Soft Power

**A/N: **And here's part 2, just like I promised... quickest update ever, by my standards anyway! Thanks for the reviews, guys, much appreciated. And I'm sorry in advance, I have the busiest week in living memory next week (9 days back to back at work, argh) so I have no idea when I'll next get a chance to write. But I WILL finish this. Honest.

And LoxKardasia, yes you do ramble. But I don't mind. In terms of your technological problems, could you type and edit it on the dinosaur laptop, then put it on a flash drive, USB, blank disc etc and upload it at an internet cafe/your local library/community centre? Probably you've tried all that before, though... I dunno, just a suggestion.

**19: SOFT POWER**

_Broken glass is luxury_

_Friendly fires are alchemy_

_Daylight is the enemy_

_Witching hour, soft power_

– _Ladytron_

Entek parked the skimmer in an alleyway near the bar where she'd first met Garak and they carefully unloaded the bombs, which were packed into boxes that had once held engineering tools. Kira looked round at the rest of them. All in black with only eyes showing in faces masked by scarves and hoods, their figures patches of darker shadow against the rapidly deepening evening, they looked like some kind of cult – which in a way she supposed they were. A cult of rebellion, if there could be such a thing.

'We'd better not screw this up,' was all Damar said, which was what apparently passed for wishing someone luck on Cardassia. Odo walked out towards the square, while the rest of them hugged the shadow in the alleyway that ran all the way around the back of the plaza, under one of the raised catwalks, and emerged just behind the Bureau – in a sickly-looking public garden, no less. Kira tried not to contemplate the irony of a garden next to that place. Even seeing the building again made her skin crawl in remembrance of the things Madred had done to her, and she could only wonder how Garak felt. His eyes were wide and pale in his dark balaclava, and she could see how tightly he was gripping the handle of the bomb-case, but other than that he seemed remarkably composed, even by Cardassian standards. Damar touched Kira's shoulder.

'We'll give you two a head start once we see the flare, in case you run into any trouble. Go on, go.'

'You know, this is going to be quite an experience,' Dukat remarked quietly as they headed towards the Bureau, but she could see the blue gleam of his eyes under his mask. 'Normally I'm the one _being _bombed by insane rebels, rather than the other way round.'

'Well, I suggest you watch and learn,' she answered curtly as he boosted her up over the perimeter wall. 'I'm an old hand at this. Come on, there's the fire ladder.'

The back of the Bureau was like the non-public face of most large administrative buildings; a veritable forest of rusting ladders and emergency stairs, environmental control units, various ducts and grimy windows that barely saw the light of day, and it was considerably less difficult than they'd expected to gain access to the roof. There was also a distinct lack of security or surveillance devices, which either meant the Bureau were overconfident, or they were sloppy. She suspected the former. Once they reached the top, they huddled next to one of the tall curved spikes typical of Cardassian roofs, and watched for the smoky evening sky to be split by Odo's flare. It was a strange moment of stillness, and despite the dread of the bombs misfiring, the idea of what she'd meet inside and the fact that they were alone and virtually unarmed on top of the scariest place in Lakat, she almost felt a kind of peace. It was like nothing existed except the roofscape, the twilight and the two of them.

'Nerys,' Dukat whispered close to her ear. She looked round at him.

'What is it?'

'Just in case this all goes wrong and we end up dead, I want you to know that despite our apparently insurmountable differences, it's been an honour to be your enemy and an even greater one to be your ally. It means a lot that you gave me the benefit of the doubt, because I thought you never would.'

'It's more than you deserved,' she muttered dryly, mainly so she didn't have to say anything she really meant, and she felt rather than heard his response, muffled by his mask: that chuckle with a faint hint of sadness which was the first thing about him that she found she didn't hate. The way he gripped her hand in his own told her he wasn't done, but before he could speak again, a sudden green flash lit up the sky, and they heard gasps and exclamations from the plaza far below. That was the signal. Maybe he'd never get another chance, but it didn't matter; Kira knew what he didn't say, and she didn't say it back. Brown eyes met blue for a split second that could have been an eternity, then she snapped hers away.

'Come on, let's get inside. Help me get this cover open.'

With a little fiddling, during every second of which Kira could imagine the bomb fuses beginning to get shorter and shorter, they managed to open the cover of the maintenance hatch. Kira jumped in first. It was horribly dark, the air stank and the ladder was slippery, but she scrambled down as fast as she could, trying to stay quiet, which was a stretch when Dukat accidentally stood on her hand.

'Turn right at the bottom – that should be the main airway,' she heard him hiss. Shaking her bruised fingers, she crawled into the pipe, Dukat right behind her, and they slithered their way through the air system according to the route he'd memorised off Garak's map, desperately trying to muffle the noises of their hands and knees on the metal and, of course, absolutely _not_ thinking about what would happen if they were still lost in here when the bombs went off.

'We should have reached a ladder by now,' he muttered after some time. 'We must have gone wrong somewhere. Stay there a moment, I'm going to – Ah, there's a trapdoor...'

She heard a squeak of rusty hinges and the noise of his boots on the rungs, then a sudden snap and a din of crashing metal, followed by a horrible crack and a strangled yell from somewhere below her. In the suddenly deafening silence, she crawled blindly to the edge of the trapdoor and reached down. The ladder must have broken off the wall when Dukat climbed on it, leaving her with only a few jagged struts and a drop of unknown length, at the end of which she risked landing right on top of him.

'Dukat?' she said uncertainly. He just groaned in reply. 'Dukat! Are you alright?'

'No,' he answered, teeth obviously clenched from pain. 'I can't move.'

'Hang on, I'm coming down – '

'Don't! It's too dangerous! You'll have to go on alone, you don't have time to help me.'

'But I don't know where I'm going!'

He gritted out a long and complicated string of directions which she wished she could see well enough to write down. But if she could see, she could use a map and wouldn't need directions.

'And that'll take me where?'

'It should bring you out just above the main power station. Now for gods' sake get on with rescuing those damn prisoners, since you were so insistent about it!'

'And you're going to fly out of there by magic, are you? I'm not just leaving you!'

'We don't have time to argue! All that noise won't have gone unnoticed, and if you don't shut the power off soon this place will be swarming! Now go on and don't come back for me – I'll see you outside.'

'But – '

'_Just go, Nerys!_'

Prophets help her, she almost believed him as she crawled away down the pipe as fast as she dared, repeating the directions over and over to herself and trying not to think about leaving him in that dark hole. His directions were correct: the last turn ended in a grille on the floor which overlooked a relay station of some kind – and a male voice talking over the comm.

'… it's nothing to do with the power on my end, all the generators are running normally,' he was saying. 'The only explanation I can think of is some kind of obstruction in the system itself. I'll go and take a look at it. Stand by, Control.'

As soon as he left the room, she slid the grille aside gently, dropped down into the room and crept out the door after him, the inner terrorist itching to take him down. He'd barely got twenty paces before her fists buried themselves in the back of his skull and he dropped like a stone, his comm-badge still tinnily shouting 'Control to Lagor, what just happened? Hello...?'

She went back into the room, checked her chronometer – still nine minutes left, less than she'd hoped for but more than she'd expected – and began to sabotage the main power grid. She wondered whether she should go for the prisoners first or try to help Dukat, then quickly berated herself for even asking such a question. It had to be the prisoners; there were far more of them, and they were, for the most part, just innocent people who'd unwittingly got themselves caught up in all this – instead of Dukat, who was basically responsible for _starting _all this. But still she asked the question, and answered it too. He'd told her not to go back for him, but since when did she ever take orders from him? She knew they'd only have a few minutes, so she hoped that the prisoners had the wherewithal to get out of their cells as soon as the forcefields opened, and she'd lead them to the back wall and shove the first few out. The rest of them would have to fend for themselves while she ran back for Dukat. Those of them who didn't make it on their own (or couldn't, she thought grimly) were beyond help. Oh, it was everything she knew she should never do on a rescue mission: going back into hostile territory, abandoning those who needed the most help, and of course the absolute worst offence, which was putting personal feelings ahead of the common goal.

But she was going to do it anyway. After that conversation on the roof, she didn't have much choice.

The room suddenly went pitch black as she disconnected the last relay and the power shut off. When they'd planned this, she was counting on having Dukat's night vision to guide her through the maze of corridors. Now she had only her own eyes, and the Cardassian guards down here would be able to see her long before she saw them. It couldn't be helped. Check the time again: six minutes. Time to go. Dear Prophets, it was dark; even with the emergency lights on, she could still barely see her hand in front of her face, and the walls seemed to lean in oppressively as she hurried along, trying to remember what she'd seen on Garak's map. She almost crashed right into another guard as she turned a corner, but the inner terrorist was doing its job and she barely even felt the knife spring into her hand, much less the crunch of it against his ribs, but as she ran she felt the blood on the blade drip onto her fingers. When she found the cells, she was glad it was dark. If she'd been able to see the place where they'd kept her for all those days, she'd have probably lost her head. She couldn't see any prisoners, but she could hear voices; lost, confused, frightened, coming from all around.

'Hey, you people in there!' she shouted into the nearest cell, where a pathetic cluster of figures huddled in the far corner. 'Get up, follow me!'

'But... but... who are you? What's happening?' asked the only prisoner who was brave enough to come closer, a scared young man by the sounds of it. Knowing he could see her better than she could see him, she pulled down the scarf and exposed her face. The man gasped.

'Most people around here call me Iliana Ghemor.'

'So it's true, you really are a Bajoran!' he said bitterly. 'Why the hell are you trying to get us out, when that document we read was something you made up to get us in here in the first place?'

'Listen here, you! I'm the one risking my neck to save everybody in these cells,' she snapped as she covered her face again, 'so you're in no position to question my nationality _or _my motives! Now, what's your name?'

'Neral,' the man stammered.

'Fine. Everyone else, follow Neral here and try to get as many people from other cells as you can. My comrades and I have planted bombs all round this building and the first one's going to blow any minute now.'

'Your comrades?' another woman asked tremulously. 'Are you with the Federation?'

'Kantar en I'las,' Kira answered. 'We've got about four minutes, so get moving, all of you.'

In the brief sweep of the cells they found fifty-four people, of whom six were beyond help and another five simply refused to move, either out of fear or because they didn't trust Kira. She didn't care, she didn't have time to care; they had a few minutes left at most and if the guards weren't already here, they'd turn up before that. And she knew the alarm would go off, a clanging, blaring din which made some of the prisoners panic and run for it. She didn't have time to get them back, either, because oh Prophets, there was the back-wall bomb, it was so loud and far too early, she had to get back to Dukat, she had to find him –

'What's happening?' somebody shouted at her as she led them through the dusty, confusing darkness towards the back of the building. Another guard broke and ran for backup at the sight of them – and then there was the wall, a jagged hole torn in it, through which she could see Damar in the courtyard, fighting with a guard amongst the dust and debris.

'Kira, hurry up!' he shouted when he saw her. 'Is that everyone?'

'I think so! Go, all of you, get out of here!' she shouted, shoving people two at a time through the blown-open gap in the back wall into the courtyard, and there were the next two bombs that shook the whole building, both going at once with a thunderous roar. Rubble fell from the ceiling, people were screaming, a phaser was being fired somewhere back down the corridor. She had three minutes until the biggest bombs went, and if she was still in the building by then she'd be history. She had to find Dukat.

'Where are you going?' Neral shouted above the noise. There was a gunner outside now, she could hear the shots and the cries. As a last resort, she shoved her dagger into Neral's hand.

'Help Damar, try to get rid of that sniper!'

'But – I – how?'

'Are you crazy? Throw the knife, throw stones, anything, just stop him shooting at everyone!' she yelled at him. 'I'm going back for somebody!'

How she made it back through there, she had no idea; all she knew was that she _had to find Dukat._ She wasn't leaving him. She realised long ago that she'd never be able to walk away again, and she knew it now in absolute black and white. And it wasn't because of the revolution that she had to find him. It wasn't even for his knowledge of Sloan and Weyoun. It was for herself.

'I told you not to come back, you stupid woman!' he snarled as she found him, hobbling painfully along the uneven floor with a badly-broken leg, clinging to the wall to stay upright. She dragged his arm round her shoulders.

'Since when do I take orders from you?' she snapped back, hauling him along. 'Now come on, we've got about a minute left before those front bombs go off! Come on, _move!_'

They nearly made it. As the last bombs went and the ceiling collapsed with a roar, they clung to each other in the chaos of dust and fire and smoke, and the last thing Kira was aware of was strong, familiar arms pulling her out into the cool night air.

* * *

><p>'Nerys, wake up!'<p>

Odo, that was Odo's voice. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on the ground in an unfamiliar alleyway. Her head hurt like mad, her ears were ringing, people were shouting and screaming somewhere close by, she could smell burning and there was something over her face, choking her, until she realised that it was her scarf. She pulled it off and scrubbed at her eyes with a leaden arm. She was on her own. She shouldn't be on her own. He was right there beside her, just then.

'Dukat,' she said hoarsely. _He's not dead. Come on. He can't be dead._

'He'll be fine once Bashir patches him up. He's in the skimmer with Damar and Entek.'

She smiled briefly. They were not a hundred metres from the scene of their crime, by the sounds of the crowd they were about to get stampeded, there were rifles firing somewhere, but somehow none of that mattered quite so much. They'd blown up the Bureau and lived to tell the tale.

'You did it, Nerys. You rescued thirty-six people.'

'Seven died,' she answered, and although it did matter – she didn't know who they were, but she'd set out to rescue them anyway – it was still better than she'd hoped. But if she'd not left them to run back for Dukat, maybe those seven people would still be alive. Still, she couldn't have it all ways.

'We'd better move,' Odo said to her, helping her up. 'There's something else you'll want to see, too.'

It was Garak about twenty feet further down the street, ghastly pale and breathing heavily, standing next to the dead body of Gul Madred. Its throat was slit, and never again would it give voice to another poisonous word. Kira didn't feel happy to see it, she just felt a terrible kind of _rightness_. Madred was dead; things were as they should be.

'For Mila,' she said quietly to Garak, who just nodded.

'For Cardassia,' he answered. Odo patted him on the back.

'We've got to go, Garak.'

They left Madred in the middle of the road so the crowd would find him as they scattered, and as soon as they all squeezed into the skimmer, Entek put his foot down and they shot into the night.

'We did it,' Damar said after a long, stunned silence when they were a good way out of Lakat proper, scooting through the moonless outer slums. 'We destroyed the Bureau. Now we just have to make sure everyone knows it.'

Kira leaned against Dukat's side and said nothing. What they'd done tonight was only the start. A good start, certainly, but once they went public, they'd really be up against it.

Exactly like being in the Resistance, then.


	20. One Of Us

**A/N: **The age-old excuse: writer's block. Coupled with a distinct lack of free time. Many apologies. On with the show.

**20: ONE OF US**

_Nothing from nowhere and no one at all_

_Ready to recognise one silent call_

_As we all form one dark flame_

_Love your hate, your faith lost_

_You are now one of us_

– _AFI_

They didn't celebrate when they got back to headquarters. In fact, they didn't even take the rest of the night off. As soon as the door was secure and Bashir was satisfied that none of them had any damage that he couldn't deal with ('What d'you mean, I shouldn't have tried to walk on it? I was stuck in an exploding building, what did you expect me to do?' Dukat was complaining as the doctor set about fixing his ankle), Damar shut himself away and began to prepare a speech to claim responsibility for the bombing, and an exhausted Garak just crawled into his alcove, sleeping without sedatives for the first time since his imprisonment. Kira knew how he felt; while she realised that they'd just leapt out of the frying pan into what was about to become an alarmingly large fire, she was also fiercely glad that Madred was gone. Once the mob was through with him, there wouldn't be enough of him left to bury. She still wished she'd killed him herself, but then again, probably everybody in those cells wished that.

Or did they? She thought about them, about that young man called Neral, not much older than Ziyal and already under sentence of death, just for seeing the wrong thing at the wrong time. He'd looked so scared – they all did. Would they come back? Would they fight now they'd been given another chance? Or was Dukat right yet again, would they just vanish amongst Cardassia Prime's ten billion inhabitants and find safety in obscurity?

And more to the point, would anyone _else _fight? The movement wasn't much better off with thirty-six people than with six, because it was enough to get caught but not enough to make a real impact. Damar's speech would really have to be something else if they were to get any help at all, beyond a kind of stunned gratitude that anyone was mad enough to do what they'd just done. On Bajor, there would be no question – there was never any question about rebelling against an oppressive regime that had been forced on them by outsiders – but here... the Cardassians wouldn't just be rebelling against the Dominion, they'd be rebelling against their own way of life. The question now was not just whether people wanted the Dominion out, it was whether they were willing to change in order to get rid of the Dominion. Or, more pessimistically, it was whether they were willing to remain slaves in their own country for the sake of a war millions of them would die in and which they may not even win when all's said and done. The imminent attack on Bajor was a big draw to the Dominion's side for many ordinary Cardassians eager for some success at last, and Kira didn't know whether Damar's speech and blowing up the Bureau was enough to swing them the other way. But for the next plan to work, they needed to know they had support – or at least enough people making enough noise and mess to provide cover for them. Because the next plan was the big one.

Central Command.

And if she thought this was hard, she could barely think about what that would be like. She just hoped that was Weyoun's last clone, because having to do it more than once would be impossible. Broca was such a non-entity that he wouldn't be much of a problem, especially with Madred gone and the Bureau in shreds, but the Vorta and Jem'Hadar weren't affected by that. No, Weyoun was the main obstacle, not Broca. Well, apart from Sloan, and Prophets only knew what _he _was doing.

'How are you doing?' Odo asked her as he came over from the computer console, where he and Entek were doing something complicated with monitoring news feeds. She sighed as he sat down on the crate next to hers, an awkward combination of too close and too distant.

'I'm worried, Odo. I don't know if this is going to be enough.'

'Enough for what? To attract Sloan's attention? To halt the attack on Bajor?' He gazed at her shrewdly. 'Or to change the Cardassians' minds? That's not going to happen overnight.'

'But it needs to. That's the problem. It needs to happen, and I'm worried it won't. You know what the Cardassians are like; going against the authorities isn't exactly welcomed with open arms.'

Odo shrugged, a typically fluid gesture, and looked around the room.

'My people and the Cardassians are both fond of order and structure, so it seems to me that we just need to create enough chaos to keep them busy while we deal with Sloan and Weyoun, who are the real problems here.'

'But Odo, there are _eight _of us. If you hadn't rescued Dukat and me, we would have been six. It's not enough!'

'You could have been killed, going back for him,' he said, not looking at her. She bit her lip.

'I know. I let seven people die and almost got myself blown up, for _him. _Why, Odo? Why did I do that?'

'You may as well ask why my alternate-future self allowed a whole colony to die so you could live, Nerys. The answer is because the other choice wasn't a choice at all. Excuse me.'

He got up abruptly and went back over to help Entek with the computer again, and Kira just sat there, an incoherent reply stuck on her tongue like melting sugar. Why did two opposite ends of a spectrum feel like the same thing? Why was that line between them so fine, yet it took so much to cross it? Seven people. A whole planet. A way of life. Things to trade, things with which to bribe destiny when the choice you had didn't feel like a choice. There were always casualties, but if you crossed the line, you had to live with that. Because once you'd crossed that line, there was no going back.

If she could cross the line for a man she'd spent most of her life wanting to kill, then the Cardassians would have to cross it to save themselves from themselves. She just hoped they realised in time.

She turned like iron drawn to a lodestone at the sound of uneven footsteps; Dukat, walking gingerly on his newly-healed leg. Prophets, none of this would be happening if it wasn't for him, and she'd still gone back into an exploding building for him. Because the alternative was worse.

'Julian got sick of you, huh?'

'The other way round, actually. Besides, Garak's in there, and as much as I'd love to kill him in his sleep, I thought it wiser to avoid the temptation. We may actually need him again at some point.'

That breathtaking arrogance was nobody else's, and she still hated him for it, but not as much as she hated the moment when she woke up in the street and he wasn't there. Hate and the other one, they were just the same. She knew what he hadn't said on the roof. He knew she knew. And as long as they both knew, maybe she'd never actually have to say it. After all, most Cardassians played their parts so well that what they _didn't_ say was far more significant. Honesty by omission.

'I know I told you not to come back for me, but I'm glad you did. I'd really rather not have died in the same place as my father did. Cardassian history has a bad enough knack for repeating itself without that particular piece of irony.'

Translation: thank you for saving my life. Another mark to make somewhere on the ever-more complicated chart of debts and payments that existed between them. She didn't know where, all the lines had blurred. Perhaps she'd claim it one day... or perhaps she wouldn't.

'You wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Resistance,' she told him, which meant _you're welcome _but she wasn't going to say it. He grinned at her, and she knew he understood.

'I doubt I'd have fitted in too well in the first place. The entrance criteria weren't particularly skewed in my favour, after all. Speaking of resistance, how's Damar doing with his rabble-rousing oratory? I should probably go and give him a hand, he's never been too good at public speaking...'

Ah. Yes. _Those_ insurmountable differences.

'You still don't get it, do you?' she said tiredly, feeling much more disappointed much more quickly than she'd thought. 'That's the whole reason why he has to do it himself. People won't listen to another statesman who's all big shiny words and empty promises, they need somebody who's one of them. Somebody who's not like you.'

'It's not just standing on a soap-box and shouting the first thing that comes into your head, you know!' he retorted indignantly. She snorted.

'The soap-box worked on Bajor, didn't it? They're not going to believe you, Dukat. You've changed sides too often. You can spin it any way you like, but when they look at you they'll see the man who signed them up with the Dominion in the first place.'

'You think I'm not aware of that?'

She could see it from his perspective, now she knew him better; he just wanted one last chance to avoid being remembered as the man who blew it. The fact that he was ready to switch sides in public was the ultimate admission that he'd been wrong, which was rare enough for any Cardassian, and especially for him. Oh, of course he'd want to spin it from any angle he could reasonably get away with, but those were the tools that Weyoun and Broca were using now. They had to be different. Hate and the other one, not by omission this time but right in the face.

'Besides, everyone still believes you're dead. If you suddenly reappear inciting rebellion, people will just think it's some kind of trick. And if it backfires, you'll look even worse.'

'Which is why I want to work with Damar on the speech, to make sure it _doesn't _backfire!' he insisted stubbornly. 'The soap-box method may have worked on Bajor, but we don't think like that!'

'Well, it's about time you did!'

He turned away, huffing out an exasperated breath, and just like in the old days she felt a brief stab of triumph that she'd wound him up, something she should probably stop feeling, especially when it was butting heads with an unpleasant need to retract the words. Then he came back and sat on the crate Odo had vacated moments ago.

'I know, Nerys, I know,' he said, in that heavy, almost gentle way which meant he was conceding the point but she'd still be the one with her argument turned upside down at the end. 'But this isn't the Occupation. We're not united like you were, and we're not free like you were.'

'Free? Us? Hah! Despite _your_ best efforts, you mean!'

'Exactly. We imprisoned you on the outside but you stayed free on the inside, which is why you beat us. On the other hand, we imprisoned _ourselves_ from the inside out. We built our own jail and threw away the key centuries ago, and a lot of people are now so used to living this way that they've forgotten there are any other ways.'

'Then we need to remind them,' she told him, aware of her logic lying on the floor in pieces as she knew it would be. She'd won this round, but it still felt like a loss. But Damar was ahead of them both; he emerged from his little room with a padd clutched in one hand and slightly burning eyes.

'What do you think?' he said abruptly, thrusting the padd into Kira's hand. She read it, Dukat leaning over her shoulder. It was... unexpected. She'd never thought Damar had a way with words, but this – simply put, angry without ranting, hard-hitting without browbeating – managed to express precisely what Dukat had just said far more succinctly; in fact, it would probably take about a minute to broadcast. It was about as un-Cardassian as a speech got, and she liked it.

'Damar, this is really rather good,' Dukat remarked, seeming surprised. 'A bit unorthodox, perhaps, but for a first effort it's very impressive. I never thought you actually _listened_ to my lectures about the importance of rhetoric!'

'I didn't,' Damar said pointedly and claimed the padd back from Kira. Dukat laughed it off, but she could see from his face that it hurt him, as did the way Damar sought her approval rather than his. He deserved it this time, as on countless other occasions, but she still felt a twinge.

'How soon can we broadcast?'

'As soon as we've found a way into the public address system in Central Plaza. See, Nerys, I told you Garak would be useful for something. I'll go and wake him up, shall I?'

Dukat had a distinctly evil look on his face as he headed for the makeshift infirmary, no doubt hoping that he could catch Garak and Bashir in some kind of awkward situation, if indeed that's how it went with them. Kira didn't know and it didn't worry her. If a pained expression on the face of the former Prefect of Bajor could make her feel like a kicked hornets' nest, then was anything really so strange any more? You held onto what you could get, because you never knew when it would be taken away again. You didn't think too hard about it, because that made you miserable.

'You think it'll do the trick?' Damar asked her, seeming almost nervous, and she felt a rush of something close to affection for him. If enough people answered the call, Cardassia could do more than throw out the Dominion – they could begin to unlock that prison they'd built for themselves. She smiled.

'I think we've got a lot more than an icicle's chance in hell,' she answered.

'Icicles _belong _in hell,' Dukat broke in as he returned, followed by a sleepy-looking Garak, who indicated the padd in Damar's hand.

'You're going to stir up the masses with an incendiary tract preaching freedom and democracy for all, hmm?' he remarked. 'Well, I can't say I like the idea, but I suppose I'll help. How long is it?'

'About a minute,' Damar answered a shade stiffly. 'Can you manage to give me that much time?'

Dukat and Garak both laughed, and Kira rolled her eyes. The brevity was the best thing about the speech; never mind stirring up any masses, most Cardassians took that long to say hello.

'I dare say I can carve out a little window. Central Command aren't the quickest thinkers, it'll take them a good thirty seconds to realise anything's wrong at all,' Garak sniffed, looking sidelong at Dukat then quickly heading for the computer. Kira rolled her eyes as Dukat glared at Garak's back. So much for unlocking the prison, when everybody was too busy arguing to notice the open door.

By dawn they were ready and nobody had slept, but that was the furthest thing from their minds. Damar looked pale and rather sick, Garak and Entek were terrifyingly focused as they punched in code after code, trying to keep pace with the rolling security lockouts for the public announcement system, and Dukat looked ever so slightly forlorn out of the corner of Kira's eyes. If this worked, the Cardassia he was brought up in would die, and he had no place in the new one. But if it didn't work, the Dominion would win and the Cardassia he was brought up in would die just the same. And Odo... Odo simply watched the screen intently. He was awaiting his first glimpse of Sloan, because he realised that once again it would probably come down to changeling against changeling, Founder against not-Founder. The Solids might provide most of the noise and mess and volume, but the crux of it all was his people. And he was trying not to think about it, because he knew that whatever happened he would never be accepted back in the Link. Or perhaps the Link would never be accepted back in him. He was still rather confused about it all, and he'd never get the chance to find out. But you picked your sides, you chose your friends and enemies, and you got on with walking the path you'd chosen. Thinking too hard about it just made you miserable.

'I'm in, let's go!' Entek suddenly announced as the screen flashed up big green characters saying _Access Granted._ Damar swallowed and quickly glanced through his padd once more.

'Comrade Damar, you have the floor,' Garak announced mock-grandly, gesturing to the comm-link he and Entek had patched into the system. Damar took a deep breath, then nodded at Kira and stepped up to the comm. He wasn't a showman like Dukat, who revelled in his own stage-presence and the effect he had on an audience – Damar was not a natural speaker, but he believed, and it showed. He really _wanted _this, and he wanted everyone else to want it too.

'People of Cardassia,' he said, slightly hesitant at first but quickly growing in confidence, 'I appear before you as the unofficial leader of a group known as Kantar en I'las. We claim responsibility for the attack on the Bureau of Information earlier this evening, and we also claim responsibility for the death of Gul Madred, who I imagine will not be missed much by any of you. Was there a purpose to this seemingly random act of violence at a time when national security and intelligence is so important? Yes, comrades, there certainly was. That purpose is to show the Dominion and Broca's puppet-government that _we have had enough of them._ It is time to discard this mockery of an alliance which has brought us nothing but shame and disgrace throughout the Alpha Quadrant, and it is time to rise up against those who have made us slaves in our own land! If the Bajorans could do it to us, then we can damn well do it to the Dominion! Are you afraid, comrades? I'm not!'

The last sentence was ferocious, and the words had barely left his lips when the screen went black, leaving him standing there open-mouthed with still a few lines of speech left to say. Garak scrambled for the command line.

'The signal's being jammed – they must have blocked it. Hang on, I'll try and get it back...'

'If they managed to trace us,' Dukat began, 'they'll be here in an – '

He was interrupted by the screen fritzing on again. Weyoun. Broca, looking astonished and rather put out. But nobody was looking at either of them; they were old news, they were practically part of the furniture these days. Everyone was looking at the tall figure of a Founder in an orange jumpsuit, standing next to an enormous Breen commander in full climate-suit.

'Sloan,' Dukat, Kira and Odo all exclaimed at once. There could be no mistaking – and as if he knew they were watching, the Founder turned that ice-blue gaze right on them, a gaze as crystalline as Odo's but with none of the warmth or decency, a gaze even colder than Weyoun's.

'Ugh, that orange,' Garak remarked snidely. 'So unflattering.'

'Shut up, Garak,' Damar hissed as Weyoun nodded at Sloan and the big Breen, then turned full-on to the camera.

'Citizens of the Dominion,' he announced in his usual unctuous tones, 'this morning brings both great and terrible news. No doubt you all just heard the lies being propagated by the traitor Damar and his little gang of agitators. Yes, citizens, that is all it was: lies and treachery.'

'Ha! His mother tongue, then,' Dukat snorted. Kira elbowed him to shut him up.

'Their heinous attack on the Bureau of Information, the murder of Gul Madred, and the subsequent denouncement of this regime serves only to illustrate that they wish you harm, citizens. Even now, those who are stupid or reckless enough to be influenced by their poison are wreaking pointless destruction in the streets...' He indicated the corner of the viewscreen, where a little window showed one of the poorer districts of Lakat, a street with overturned skimmers, burning buildings and phaser fire slashing the morning air like lightning. 'However, this wanton chaos shall not last long. The reason for this, citizens, is that we have a new and powerful ally in this war, which will enable us to launch a full-scale assault on Bajor and the Federation while defending our own territory against more traitors and rebels. Victory is in sight, citizens!'

He reached his hand out and shook the enormous gloved hand of the Breen commander standing with Sloan. Broca looked pale and sick as Weyoun smiled his sweetest, sickliest smile.

'Citizens of the Dominion, our newest allies are the Breen.'


	21. My Blood Beats Black Tonight

**A/N: **My excuse this time is that I've had an absolute bastard of a month, for various reasons, and I've not really been feeling compos mentis enough to write properly. Getting better now though. However, I WILL finish this sooner or later. Thanks for your patience, if I was you I'd have given up long ago!

Also, listen to the song below if you've never heard it before (actual title is Bloodbeat) because Patrick Wolf is awesome.

**21: MY BLOOD BEATS BLACK TONIGHT**

_No need for comfort, no need for light_

_I'm hunting down the demons tonight_

_Eat the terror, lick the spark_

_Uh oh, my blood beats dark_

– _Patrick Wolf_

'The Breen! I don't believe it!' Damar was exclaiming over the static that followed the end of Weyoun's announcement. 'He must have tricked them into it somehow!'

'We're finished,' Entek added gloomily. 'Nobody wins against the Breen.'

'Honestly, don't you people ever listen?' Dukat broke in, and Kira was too preoccupied to even upbraid him on his hypocrisy. 'Don't you see?' he continued. 'They've just handed us this thing on a plate! If they're siding with the Breen, they'll have promised them all the western territories to seal the deal, and once people find out that we've lost everything from Volnar to Dopa there'll be complete uproar – '

'It's just like that fake evidence we tried to spread, only this time it's real,' Kira finished for him, the thrill of sudden realisation hitting her like a hammer and flattening the surprise she still felt when she thought along the same lines as him. 'We weren't stirring up rumours, we were predicting the future. Without even realising.'

Her brain reeled. She'd actually completed her mission, not failed it – it had just happened _backwards_. Her enemies had vindicated her retroactively and given the Cardassian people the rope with which to hang them, and it felt as giddy as running with scissors; if they let the momentum slacken, if they even paused too long for thought, they'd trip and stab themselves. This was the decider, the home stretch. All or nothing.

'They must have thought it was a good enough idea to use themselves,' Garak chipped in. 'Either that, or they're actually afraid of us. I suspect the latter, because not even Weyoun is _that _stupid...'

'Either way, we've got them!' Damar exclaimed, banging his fist into his open palm. 'We've got to get out of here, though. We can't lead a mass rebellion from this dismal hole.'

That meant venturing into the streets. That meant appearing in public. That meant an end to sneaking and hiding and spying, it meant out-in-the-open fighting. Kira smiled. She was _home. _She understood that kind of rebellion.

'We've got to take Central Command,' she said grimly. 'We've got to muster up enough people to fight our way in there.'

'If we can do that, we can communicate with the fleets, get some of them on our side and maybe try coordinating something with Sisko's people on Terok Nor,' Dukat continued, and she could see he had his tactical face on, which in the old days was a sign that she'd be fighting her grudging admiration for his strategic skill while simultaneously hating his motives. Now she no longer had to do that, and it dulled the edge a little. It was almost... nostalgic.

'It'll be all the harder for us now that idiot Rusot's probably been spreading lies around for the last few days, damn him!' Damar said bitterly. Entek shrugged.

'Maybe once he sees that we were right, he'll come round. He only left because he was afraid.'

'Yes, but he's much too proud to come back and admit it,' Garak replied. 'We're better off contacting someone else.'

'Hmm, you may be right. What about – '

'What about we get in there first, then open the address book?' Kira snapped. 'Now come on, let's pack up and get out of here before the Jem'Hadar and their new friends the Breen decide to crash the party.'

As they piled into the skimmer, they could see the cloudy sky filled with ships taking off from the big hangar in the centre of Lakat. It was the fleet with its new Breen outriders, headed for Bajor and DS9. They had a few hours at most – a few crazy, hot, dangerous, frantic hours of fighting and running and fighting again until they captured Central Command or they were all dead – because if they didn't take control of communications with the fleet before it met the Federation's ships, Bajor and everything around it would get absolutely flattened. Kira doubted that the Dominion would try to retake DS9 again; most likely they'd rather destroy it than fight over it, because if the wormhole was still mined there wasn't much strategic value in the station. And since neither the Jem'Hadar nor the Breen cared about their troops' morale and nobody cared about the Cardassian troops any more, a symbolic victory was completely redundant. The Dominion weren't out to prove a point – what they wanted to do was kill their enemies, and they were on their way to do so.

'We should split up once we get there,' Garak was saying. 'From the sounds of it there's rather a lot of fighting going on, and it'd be unwise for all of us to get stuck in the middle of it.'

'Fine,' Damar answered. 'Kira, you lead one team, I'll lead the other. We've got to mobilise as many people as we can into a united force. A rabble's no use, we've got to have some strategy.'

'We've also got to find some weapons, since all that stuff you stole from the Second Order's depot is obviously no use,' Dukat interjected a shade sourly; he evidently still felt a bit territorial about his former command. 'I hope they've left some Breen behind to help the civil police, their disruptors are a lot better than phasers. Not to mention the opportunity for disguise...' He quirked an eye-ridge at Kira and she remembered when they'd gone to rescue Ziyal from Dozaria, a lifetime ago now. There and back again, she thought. Vaguely, she hoped Ziyal was alright, wherever she was.

'But if we dress up as Breen, no one will know who we are. I thought the whole point was to lead from the front, not lurk behind a disguise?' Bashir objected. Dukat scowled at him.

'Would you rather be in disguise or dead?'

'Shut up, both of you! We'll go for the disguise when things start getting hotter,' Damar decided. 'But we've got to make sure a few people have seen us out there first – '

He never finished his sentence, as a deafening bang and a force like a charging rhino sent the skimmer careering off the road and into a wall. They all scrambled out, only to dive for cover again as another missile landed mere feet from Garak and Entek.

'What are they shooting at us? Where are they?' Kira yelled over the noise as they rushed down a narrow alley, bits of rubble from the buildings raining down on them and the air so thick with dust and smoke they could hardly breathe.

'That's the Breen for you: never just kill your opponents when you could atomise them instead!' Dukat shouted back. 'If we could capture one of those cannons – '

'No, they're too heavy to move,' Damar panted. 'Quick, in here!'

He kicked a door open and they cut through the back of a kanar house, and Kira just put her head down and ran along with the rest of them; she had no idea where they were, it was unbearably hot and humid, and the whole city was full of shouting and shooting and screaming and stink, dark bodies and bright disruptor fire. So much for splitting up – by the time she worked out what was going on, they were crammed together in the middle of Central Plaza while bursts of disruptor bolts and phaser fire whistled overhead from behind the ruins of the Bureau and the two turrets outside Central Command, the next building over, which had been slightly damaged by the bombs but was already in scaffolding. She could hardly believe it only happened last night.

'What now?' she yelled in Damar's ear over the noise.

'We let them know we're here, of course!' he shouted back, then scrambled up onto the plinth of a nearby statue, fully in view of the gunners.

'Are you insane? Get down from there!' Dukat exclaimed, but Damar ignored him and cupped his hands round his mouth.

'Kantar en I'las are coming for you, Founders!' he roared. 'Cardassians, to me!'

Dukat only just pulled him down in time as a hail of fire from Central Command almost drowned out the howls of the crowd; Kira saw someone not three feet from her fall with a shriek, and the head of the statue exploded into fragments of stone that cut her skin. They shoved their way forwards, elbowing and pushing through the mob which pressed ever tighter around them, and the shots were soon lost amongst the noise of thousands of Cardassians suddenly realising that their big moment had arrived. It was like being caught in a tidal wave, like a dam bursting. It felt nothing like the big fights during the Resistance. The Bajorans were not an angry or aggressive people, and attacking was not in their nature, it was something they had to be persuaded into – but the Cardassians were different. They were fighters, and once their blood was up nothing would stop them; they'd simply keep fighting until they'd won, or they were all dead. Now they were allowed to give vent to that secret hatred of the authorities they'd always had to repress, there was no going back. She looked at the faces of her unlikely group of comrades, and they were all the same; Cardassian, changeling, Terran – they all could have been her, and she could have been any of them. Every face in the crowd was the same. No fear, only anger and adrenaline and that special kind of reckless, giddy freedom only felt by those who are on the edge of death.

They reached the front and threw themselves at the line of Jem'Hadar, Breen and Cardassian security forces in front of Central Command, bolts from the two big disruptor batteries exploding all around them like purple lightning which by some miracle struck everything but them. Damar was everywhere at once – yelling orders and exhortations, firing off rounds from a hand phaser, even going hand to hand against an enormous Jem'Hadar, and out of all of them he burned the brightest – just like Shakaar at Gallitep, just like Sisko in full Emissary mode, just like anyone anywhere who believed in something bigger than themselves. She and Odo and Bashir fought back-to-back with Garak and Entek crouching between them and hurriedly assembling a bomb out of some leftover explosives. Dukat was nowhere to be seen. She didn't have time to wonder where he was, or even if he was still alive – but she soon got her answer when one of the disruptor cannons swung round and began firing rather jerkily at the other gunners instead. She suspected the gun was tricky to operate with just one person; either that, or he was reluctant to open fire on his own countrymen. Probably the former; this was Dukat, after all.

'Aim for the doors, idiot!' she yelled, though he had no hope of hearing her and a Breen was right in her face; she brought both fists down hard on the snout of its helmet, crushing the respirator, then fought her way over to Damar.

'Dukat's captured one of the turrets!' she shouted at him. 'I'm going to help him blow the doors – you stay here and organise this lot!'

'Good luck – ' he began, before a Jem'Hadar knocked him sideways and she lost him in the roaring, punching, kicking crowd, who leapt on the creature and fairly tore it to pieces. She could see Dukat up on top of the battery, and another group were fighting with the operators of the other one. She scrambled up behind him, shook his shoulder and hurriedly ducked his punch as he turned on her with a snarl.

'Dukat, stop, it's me!' she shouted and he froze instantly, looking horrified.

'Sorry,' he panted, lowering his fists. 'Thought you were another Breen sneaking up on me.'

'Do I look like a Breen to you?'

'You were behind me, how was I meant to know? I'm not psychic!'

He was filthy, bleeding all down one side of his face and his hand was wrapped in a bloody scrap of shirt, but his eyes burned into hers in his trademark evil smirk. She returned it. It felt good. Fighting with him, rather than against him, felt even better; like that time on Dozaria, just for a moment, they'd been united against the Breen and worked like a single seamless organism, almost on instinct. He'd been right then and he was still right; they made a good team. He indicated Central Command.

'Get on the other gun, and let's knock on those doors a little louder, shall we?'

She leapt off the side, scrambled up onto the other and came face to face with Neral, the young man she'd freed from the Bureau. She barely had time to recognise him before he shoved her roughly out the way and belted a Jem'Hadar full in the face, knocking it off the side of the battery. Gone was the scared, naive twenty-year-old from those dark cells, and in his place was a fierce, angry young man who could have been any soldier in the Occupation, any of the race she'd grown up hating.

'I shouldn't have doubted you,' he said as he helped her up. 'I'm sorry for being stupid and blind.'

'No time for that,' she interrupted, though she was strangely delighted at having a Cardassian apologise to her so honestly. She indicated the mob, which was becoming more and more chaotic as increasing numbers of civil police tore off their badges and sided with the rioters instead, but even as they did so more Jem'Hadar kept appearing out of nowhere to join the scrum.

'Can you watch my back against that lot? I'm going to try to blow the doors – '

'We're going for Central Command? Gods!' Neral exclaimed, and the fear was back in his face again. Kira nodded.

'We want control, don't we? We'll never get anywhere if they still have the military. Ever heard the saying, "If you want peace, prepare for war?"'

'Kindly get a move on, would you? This is no time for idle conversation!' Dukat yelled from the other side, then kicked a Breen in the head as it tried to climb up the back end of the turret. He had the advantage of being up high, but there were more Jem'Hadar headed towards him and one of the former policemen protecting his back had just been shot. Kira swung the turret round towards the doors of Central Command, looked back over her shoulder and locked eyes with him. She nodded, he grinned, and they pulled the triggers. Not so much as a scratch appeared on the massive doors.

'Again!' she yelled; they fired bolt after bolt, enough firepower to blast through a starship's hull, and still the doors didn't budge an inch. Then they realised their mistake: there were now Breen with a missile launcher on the rooftops on the other side of the square, and they'd bottle-necked themselves into a corner. If they didn't get off the turrets, their heads would be all over the wall in seconds. Kira threw herself down into the crowd, hardly caring who or what was underneath her, as a shell landed six feet away and showered people and blood and chips of paving stone everywhere. A tight grip closed around her leg; she kicked out with the hard heel of her boot and heard a yell of pain in Garak's voice. Hastily she turned; she'd kicked him in the face and his nose was bleeding all down his front.

'And to think, I managed to avoid injury until now,' he shouted above the noise before they both had to avoid another shell; their hasty leap to the side brought them over to where Dukat was being hemmed in by two Jem'Hadar, with another right behind them. He was fighting like a wild thing with a knife in one hand and a length of metal in the other, but his back was pressed against the turret and he was clearly getting the worst of it. Garak and Kira exchanged a look.

'We need him, Garak,' she said fiercely.

'Oh, alright,' Garak sighed. 'But it's not like he'll thank me or anything.'

The expression on Dukat's battered face was absolutely priceless when two of his enemies suddenly went down apparently of their own accord. Then he saw Kira and Garak behind them, and recovered himself enough to deal with the third one before they all crouched in the lee of the turret for a minute to escape the bombing and fighting and madness in the square.

'It occurs to me,' Garak said loudly, 'that if one of those shells was to hit the doors, it would do much more damage than your feeble efforts with the turrets, Dukat.'

'Oh? Well, it occurs to _me, _Garak, that they're aiming for _us_, not for Central Command!' Dukat retorted, evidently furious that he now owed Garak for getting him out of danger. 'And if my efforts were so feeble, I'd like to see you do better!'

'He means we've got to trick them into shooting that way,' Kira cut in impatiently. 'We've got to draw their fire.'

'That's madness! We might as well paint big targets on our backs and stand very still!'

'This whole thing is madness,' Garak said, 'so a little more won't hurt. Well, apart from if it kills us.'

'Where's Damar? He'd better not be dead, because I want him to take the blame if this goes wrong!'

None of them had seen Damar for some time. Nor had they seen Odo and Bashir and Entek, Kira thought grimly. They were all out there in that scrum somewhere; Odo could survive almost anything, but the others would be in trouble if any of those shells came their way. While she fretted, Neral struggled over to them, crazy-eyed and bleeding from half a dozen wounds.

'I know what you're trying to do!' he shouted. 'Let me help you! I'm not afraid!'

She'd seen faces like his before, on Resistance fighters who'd lost all fear of death and all sense of their own self, so aflame were they with the cause they fought for. There'd been a lot of martyrs made that way, especially in the later days. And once someone decided to do that, there was no stopping them. She looked Neral in his wild dark eyes.

'You're sure?'

'I'm not afraid,' he repeated. She nodded and he swung himself up onto one of the turrets without another word, then leapt on top of the porch of Central Command, a flat little roof topped with razor wire. He stood tall and spread his arms wide like an embrace as the volley of missiles came screaming across the square, bombarding the front of Central Command with noise and light and explosions. Kira, Dukat and Garak flung themselves flat as half the portico came crashing down and the doors buckled. No trace remained of Neral – but he'd done it. The doors were dented far enough inwards that they could squeeze through. The gunners stopped for a minute, perhaps to reload, and they seized their chance; Kira first, then Garak, then Dukat, whose long legs had barely cleared the hole when the doors blew right off their hinges and forced them to the floor again.

'Right, here we go. Into the dragon's lair,' Kira announced with her face against cold stone.

'What the hell is a dragon?' Dukat asked. Kira rolled her eyes and sniggered in spite of herself. Three people, three battered, bruised, exhausted people separated from the rest of their comrades, taking on the whole of Central Command, not to mention Weyoun, Broca and Sloan himself. It was suicide.

Still, sometimes you've got to laugh.


	22. Pins And Needles

**A/N: A**aaaand... I'm back. Sorry this took so long, and thanks for all the lovely reviews and follows and stuff, despite my inactivity. You lot have more patience than I do, that's for sure!

Answer to **Achelois's **question: No, it isn't the same guy, or at least it isn't supposed to be. I seem to remember he met a rather sticky end in that episode... I just went for a vaguely Cardassian-sounding name and only found out ages later that it had already been used, so I've technically pinched it without meaning to. Oops.

**22: PINS AND NEEDLES**

_Like sitting on pins and needles_

_Things fall apart_

_It's scientific_

– _Talking Heads_

Hold the line.

That's all Sisko was thinking about as he sat in the command chair of the Defiant, bang in the middle of the hastily-formed blockade they'd created against the Armageddon of Dominion, Cardassian and Breen ships coming closer and closer. Hold the line, as long and as strong as possible. He'd stopped praying for a miracle on Cardassia; Kira, Odo, Dukat and all the rest of them were undoubtedly dead by now, and the only thing left between Sloan and the wormhole was this flimsy excuse for a defensive line they'd cobbled together out of whoever and whatever was available. Klingon, Federation, even a few Bajoran ships which were so old and battered as to be barely space-worthy, spread far too thin and woefully undermanned – the Dominion fleet was just too big to deal with all at once. It had gone long beyond the point of any last-ditch attempt at resolving things diplomatically; they were like the Borg, who stopped for nothing in their endless subjugation of all that they came across. Once this line fell, which was only a matter of time, and the millions of reinforcements poured through the unblocked wormhole, nothing in the quadrant would survive; it would all be enslaved or, in the case of the Federation and Bajor and others who had made it clear they would not cooperate, simply destroyed down to the last atom. Nobody would remember their heroic, hopeless last stand – what need did a race of emotionless, pre-programmed battle clones have for histories and legends? It would be like they had never existed at all.

However, Benjamin Sisko was not going to give up without a fight. But you know, Prophets, he thought, if I truly am your Emissary, then I could really use a divine manifestation or two right about now. There was of course no answer from the wormhole beings. They didn't seem to care that a vast fleet of ships was about to plough through their back yard and demolish the planet they supposedly held dear, but then again, they didn't seem to care about anything much. He looked again at the radar, one side of which was covered in a huge rash of red, purple and yellow dots indicating Jem'Hadar, Breen and Cardassian vessels. He noticed rather distractedly that the Cardassians seemed to be flying very oddly, often breaking formation to converge in little groups which then split apart and reformed differently. Perhaps it was some sort of strange tactic; he didn't quite bring himself to hope that it was anything that could help him. Perhaps Dukat had betrayed them all again; or perhaps he hadn't – either way, they were undoubtedly dead by now. DS9 was the final bastion.

'Shame it has to end this way, isn't it?' Dax said quietly, fitting seamlessly into his thoughts in the way only a lifelong friend could do. He shook his head.

'What can I say, Old Man? We did our best, and that's all anyone can really ask of us.'

'Did we, though?' she countered, more to herself than to him. 'What could we have done differently? And would it really matter now?'

'I don't know,' Sisko answered. 'And I guess I never will. Alright, let's get this show on the road for one last time. Contact the Chief in Ops, let him know we're all in position.'

He hoped all the civilians had made it to the emergency transports, otherwise they'd be stuck here for the duration once O'Brien raised the shields. Not that they'd fare much better planetside than on the station once the line had broken, but it was the principle of the thing. Some of the stronger ones might survive to carry on the fight; Jake, for example, and Ziyal. He couldn't bear to watch as they'd got on the last transport to Lissepia; sometimes it was better not to say goodbye, because that made it too real. At least Jake still had him, for now; Ziyal probably didn't have anyone.

'The Chief's hailing you, sir,' Dax announced, distracting Sisko from his gloomy ruminations. He hit the comm and O'Brien appeared on the monitor, looking tired and harassed.

'How's it going over there, Chief?'

'The last transport to Bajor just left, and I'm raising shields now.' The Irishman paused for a second, then set his jaw stubbornly. 'Give 'em hell, sir.'

'I'll do my best. You just make sure we've got a station to come back to afterwards.'

Both of them knew there wouldn't be anything to go back to, or anyone to do the going back, but that wasn't the point. You believed with all your heart that you were coming back, because otherwise you'd already lost. He looked back at the monitor, where O'Brien's face had been replaced by the view out the front of the Defiant. Another few minutes and the Dominion fleet would be in visual range. The Bajorans believed people should not look into the eyes of their gods... but they didn't say anything about devils, Sisko thought grimly. He met Dax's steady blue gaze.

'Well, Old Man, this is it. Any last words?'

He was struck, as always, by the beauty of her impish smile as she recited the old Klingon saying:

'Today is a good day to die.'

'I'm sure we're going the wrong way,' Garak panted as the three of them dragged themselves down yet another deserted hallway somewhere in the rabbit-warren of offices, control rooms and archives that made up Central Command. Dukat turned with a snarl.

'Oh, you're _sure_, are you? Need I point out that I have worked in this building for half my life, whereas you spent most of your time mouldering in some Obsidian bolt-hole?'

'Shut up, both of you,' Kira snapped. 'What I want to know is, where the hell is everyone? Is it normally this quiet?'

'Not when he's here,' Garak quipped, jerking his head at Dukat. Dukat ignored him.

'When there's a big battle they only leave a skeleton staff on duty, and most of them are probably out dealing with the riots. However, I know Sloan, and he's not the type to lead from the front. He'll be around here somewhere. And so will Weyoun. Let's go this way.'

They limped and stumbled their way through a hot, dark, suspiciously empty labyrinth of corridors, lifts and walkways, and Kira knew this was all wrong. Nobody was here. They were too late, and now they'd never catch up with Sloan; they were in the dragon's lair, but the dragon had already flown. Dukat punched in a code on a door; nothing happened. Cursing, he tried to override it, but it wouldn't budge.

'Oh, do stop making an idiot of yourself,' Garak sighed, shoving him out the way and overriding the door in about ten seconds flat. Fuming, Dukat followed him and Kira in, and they all stopped dead at the sight of Broca's mangled body sprawled across a console, the monitors all round him showing crazy multicoloured static and the comm system blaring unintelligible snatches of a thousand garbled conversations on a thousand speeding ships far away. Dukat approached Broca, then stopped, surprised, as the man groaned weakly.

'Too late... all gone,' he rasped.

'I can see that, thank you!' Dukat snapped. 'Why aren't you with them?'

'Tried to escape... Founder killed me.'

'Stupid as well as spineless,' Garak muttered, poking at one of the computer terminals, which caused a burst of crackles and sparks to erupt from the blown-out monitors. He quickly stopped.

'How many ships did they leave behind?' Dukat asked Broca.

'Don't know,' Broca wheezed. Dukat gaped at him.

'How can you not _know ? _I thought you were meant to be in charge of our fleets around here!'

'So did I,' Broca managed with the shadow of a smile. Dukat shook his head, not smiling back.

'Blind, stupid _and _spineless? No wonder Weyoun chose you as his puppet. Right, where's the key?'

'No... can't find – '

'Don't be a fool, you don't need it any more! Come on, hand it over.'

Broca just moaned in response. Dukat shook him roughly.

'Listen to me, you miserable excuse for a man, do something intelligent for once in your life and tell me where the key is, or I'll finish off what Sloan started!'

Broca gave one final terrified gurgle and died, flopping across the console like a sack of potatoes. Kira glared at Dukat.

'What'd you go and do that for? He would have told you if you let him! Now you're never going to find this key, whatever it is!'

'Oh, he would have died anyway, look at the state of him... Hah, I don't believe it, he had it in his pocket, the fool! Obviously he never managed to work out what it's for, luckily for us.'

Dukat had been busy searching the corpse's pockets; he grinned triumphantly and held up a small isolinear rod, then wiped Broca's blood off his hands on the man's trousers. Garak didn't look impressed.

'That's the key? Well, I see _exactly_ how that's going to solve all our problems at once... What advantage does it give you, if there's nobody behind any of the doors?'

'We can use it to get to a ship and chase after Sloan, of course.'

'It takes more than three people to fly a ship, you know. And that's assuming they've left one for us – which would be convenient, but I doubt Sloan had our convenience in mind.'

'So what are we going to do? In case you hadn't noticed, we're running out of time!' Kira snapped. This broken, empty room was beginning to unnerve her, and in her mind's eye all she could see was Bajor surrounded by Jem'Hadar ships, the smoking ruin of Deep Space Nine in the background. They were too late; Sloan was a step ahead once more, and there weren't any more steps to take. If they didn't stop him now, nobody would live long enough to wonder why they'd screwed up so badly. Dukat suddenly laughed, and Kira stared at him, marvelling that for once he'd broken the tension rather than making it worse, even though she didn't have the faintest idea what he was thinking about.

'What's so funny?' she asked. 'Oh... wait, I know that grin. You've got an idea, haven't you?'

'I certainly have, and it's a damn good one. I knew this key would come in handy one day,' Dukat announced, looking more like his old smug self than he had in a long time. Garak rolled his eyes.

'Oh dear, you're not trying to be _clever_ again, are you? You know what happened last time you did that...'

'Yes yes, very funny, but I don't believe I was talking to you,' Dukat retorted. 'Nerys, take our comedian here and try to find the others. Get up on a roof and watch the sky.'

'Watch the _sky?_' Kira repeated incredulously. 'Prophets' sake, this is not the time for one of your half-baked stunts! What the hell are you up to this time?'

'Just watch, you'll see!' Dukat called, already halfway out the door. Garak heaved a sigh.

'Well, I knew he was going to leave _me_ for dead sooner or later, but I didn't think he'd do it to you too,' he remarked offhandedly. 'He just wanted the master key back in his hand so he can pretend to be king of the castle once more. Pathetic, isn't it?'

Kira shook her head. Why had Dukat run off and left her in the lurch like this again, at the exact moment when they needed to stick together? As usual, he'd left her no choice but to go along with whatever crazy thing he was planning, without telling her what it was – and this time it felt worse, because if he was relying on her and she didn't do what he'd asked, he'd end up getting himself killed on her account. Just like last time.

'Even Dukat's not that stupid,' she answered flatly, and she wanted to believe it herself but Garak's words had sounded uncomfortably accurate, and up until recently she would have had no problem agreeing with him. Garak raised a sceptical eyeridge, but she stared at him sternly until he dropped it again. He sighed again.

'So you think we should do what he said?'

'Well, we're no worse off dead out there than in here – and funnily enough, I don't see _you_ coming up with any better ideas. In any case, we'd better find Damar and the others before somebody kills them. I hope you remember the way out of here, because I don't.'

She was wrong: they were a lot better off inside, mainly because inside wasn't a boiling, smoky hell of phaser fire and mangled corpses and shouting and explosions. The air was so thick she could hardly breathe, and there appeared to be something wrong with the Breen batteries on the roof because one was firing madly all over the place, shells whizzing off into the sky as often as they hit anything. They shoved their way through the mess, Kira used to it from experience and Garak managing through sheer expertise at ducking and diving. They aimed for the thickest, noisiest part of the fighting, and sure enough, Damar was right in the middle of it in a little maelstrom all his own, driven entirely by fury; as Kira watched him for a second, the reason became obvious: Entek lay on the floor, eyes staring up at nothing and half his head missing, the quiet man who was now even quieter. Odo and Bashir were crouched behind a fallen section of wall protecting Damar's back, but they looked fairly trapped, and it was only Damar's mad onslaught on anything and everything that came within range that stopped the three of them from being completely overwhelmed. Garak took down three Jem'Hadar in as many minutes, and Kira discovered, to her grim delight, that the Breen had a weak spot at the back of their helmets that was just the right shape for the curved blade of her knife. She hauled Damar down behind the wall while Garak, Odo and Bashir covered them. Damar was covered in blood of three different colours and his eyes were wild.

'Dukat's got an idea,' she shouted in his ear. 'You have to come with me!'

'I don't give a shit about his idea!'

'We've got to get after Sloan – we need your help, we need everyone. Come on.'

'I don't give a shit about Sloan, either!' he yelled at her, trying to get up and launch himself back into the fray. Kira shook him furiously. This had happened to her before, when a comrade had been killed so suddenly and horribly, and all she wanted to do was make her enemies hurt as much as she did, never mind what the plan was, never mind anything besides stabbing and shooting and taking as many of the bastards as she could down with her. And it had been Shakaar who'd snapped her out of it, who'd stopped her from throwing her life away in pointless rage. Think with your head, Nerys, he'd said. Not your guts.

'Entek did!' she snarled back. 'He knew what we had to do, and he died doing it! You've shown them the way, now you have to let them finish what you started! _Think_ about it, Damar, you're never going to win this one all by yourself!'

He gave her a look of purest hate, but broke off as they heard Bashir yell something about having no shots left. Garak stuck his head over the wall.

'Would you two mind hurrying up a little? Odo and I can't keep this up forever and the doctor's phaser appears to be out of action!'

'We're ready. Come on, let's move!'

They shoved their way through their enemies in a bull rush, all five of them, and raced across the square before anyone could figure out where they were going, then swarmed up an emergency ladder onto the roof opposite Central Command. Damar turned to Kira with a snarl as they crouched on a balcony just below the malfunctioning Breen guns.

'Now what? Are we just going to cower up here while those Dominion bastards win the fight? Some plan!'

Kira didn't answer, because she'd just worked out what Dukat was up to. It was crazy, it was reckless, it was desperate... and it was ever so slightly brilliant. Barrelling towards them like a huge green bird was the battered old Klingon bird-of-prey she'd helped him capture when he was an outlaw, what seemed like a thousand years ago. And the bottom airlock door was open.

'My gods, he's insane,' Bashir exclaimed as it got closer. Kira grabbed Odo's arm.

'We need a ladder, quick!'

The changeling wasted no time; as soon as the ship was nearly on top of them, he shot upwards in a long tendril of golden gelatin and seconds later the rest of them were snared in a strong, slightly sticky net like a gigantic spider web, then swinging up into the airlock as the ship rocketed into the sky.

The ship was not in good shape at all; the airlock door wouldn't close properly, the artificial gravity was dodgy, the turbolift was jammed at the top of its shaft and the bridge was a riot of loose wiring and blinking lights. Dukat stood in the middle of it all, oblivious to the sparks that flew overhead from a busted relay junction and the crazy flicker of the emergency lamps, hands darting wildly across consoles as he attempted to steer and recalibrate the shields simultaneously. Damar shook his head incredulously.

'_This _is your plan?' he exclaimed. 'Entek died for _this?'_

'Entek's dead? Oh,' Dukat answered blankly, then broke off, cursing, as something else blew out on the ops console. Kira shoved him back towards the helm and took over working on the shields; the computer was pretty much fried, but some manual re-routing of a few power couplings got them at least partial shields. It wasn't easy, with only emergency lighting and Dukat's maniac driving.

'Damar?' Dukat shouted over the growl of the impulse engines kicking in as they left the atmosphere. 'Go down to engineering and get the cloak working, would you? I can't do it from here. Odo, help him out. Nerys, see if you can boost those shields any more. Garak, you're not totally useless at communications – '

'Excuse _me,'_ Garak cut in indignantly. Dukat scowled.

'Shut up. And you and the doctor can try fixing the subspace transmitter. If we don't warn the rest of the fleet that we're in this old bucket, they'll probably blow us up by mistake.'

And just like that, Dukat was again captain of Cardassia's one and only pirate ship. Damar glared.

'What about the rest of Cardassia? Any orders for them, _Gul _Dukat?' he sneered. Dukat looked back at him for a long time, his face a strange mix of pride and bitterness.

'Yes, actually. Win the fight and drive the Dominion out. But they'd rather listen to you, I think. Perhaps you could deliver the message to the fleets, once the transmitter's up and running.'

Damar stared back for an even longer time. Then he nodded, some of the anger leaving his face.

'Yes. I'll do that.'

He and Odo headed for the Jeffreys tube that led to the lower decks, and Bashir and Garak made for the communications console.

'And what will you be doing, apart from ordering the rest of us around?' Kira asked Dukat, only half joking. Dukat gestured to the helm, his manic grin contrasting strangely with the grim look in his eyes.

'Driving, of course. Why, would you rather take control? The readouts are all in Kardasi, by the way.'

She just snorted and went back to wrestling with the ablative shields. If they were going to last more than five seconds in the middle of a full-scale space battle, this old scrapheap of a ship would need all the armour it could get.


	23. Kingdom

**A/N: **If patience is a virtue, you lot are pretty saintly – even though a few of you have got annoyed with me for being so slow! To be honest you're perfectly justified in doing so, since I've been writing this story for over a year…

… but we're in the home straight now. Trust me, the torture is nearly over and things will tie up all nicely and not leave any loose ends flapping. Or that's the plan, anyway.

**A/N Supplemental:** To answer the dreaded "sequel" question that numerous people have asked me: unless any of you still plan on being sat here waiting for updates when you're old enough for a free bus pass (which, given the current government, would make you pretty bloody ancient), then I don't think I should do a sequel.

**23: KINGDOM**

_And I believe that we'll conceive_

_To make in hell for us a heaven_

_A brave new world, a promised land_

_A fortitude of hearts and minds_

– _VNV Nation_

Holy God and Allah and Buddha and Prophets and Kahless, any deity who's listening, there are so _many _of them, Sisko thought grimly as the Defiant struggled past a vast smoking hulk to regroup their battered lines. They were losing, badly: the Breen were making mincemeat of the Klingons, the Jem'Hadar were like the Hydra – destroy one and three more pop up in its place – and as for the Cardassians, he didn't even know what they were doing. They just seemed to be swooping around, ducking in and out, firing a few salvoes here and there but never committing to anything; one minute they were a tight combat wedge, next minute they'd broken off into ones and twos, and he did not have a clue what they were up to. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect the use of Dukat tactics. But Dukat was most likely dead, along with Kira and Bashir and Odo and Garak, and Sisko expected the rest of them would be joining them very shortly in wherever it was that those on the wrong side of impossible odds ended up.

'Crazy Horse to Defiant,' the comm shouted. Sisko wearily hit the switch.

'This is Sisko, go ahead.'

But Crazy Horse did not go ahead; instead there was a burst of terrible noise over the comm, then nothing but static. Everyone knew what it meant. Dax cursed in Trill.

'Benjamin, we really can't keep this up much longer,' she warned, swinging them into a dizzying loop around a Breen heavy cruiser while Nog (covering tactical as Worf was on the Rotarran with Martok) fired a torpedo salvo at it, which missed narrowly. 'We're down to 16 per cent on the ablative shields!'

'We have to, Old Man! Argh, what the hell are those Cardassians playing at?' Sisko exclaimed as they had to swerve out the way of a Galor cutting them up. 'Are they fighting, or not?'

'Sir! There's a Dominion ship headed for the wormhole!' Nog shouted out. Sure enough, the sensors showed that one of the smaller Jem'Hadar cruisers had broken off from the battle and was streaking towards the co-ordinates they all knew off by heart. Sisko hailed the station.

'Defiant to Ops – Chief, are you there?'

'Here, sir,' O'Brien answered hastily, appearing on the monitor. His face was singed, his uniform was filthy and Ops looked a fright, but he was still alive. 'Those spoonheads are playing silly buggers, sir, I know it. Watch out for them.'

'Chief, according to Nog's sensor readings, there's a Dominion vessel approaching the wormhole, which means they're up to something. Can you boost the shields any further?'

'Nope,' the Irishman announced flatly. 'We're nearly out of power as it is, I daren't risk it.'

'Can you hit them from here?'

'Doubt it, and I'd risk torpedoing one of the mines as well. If they hit that field, we're going to feel it. And we can't get rid of the mines, they're the only thing blockading the wormhole.'

'Goddammit! What are they doing out there?'

'I'll find out,' O'Brien answered. 'Gimme a minute, sir, I'll have a look. Ops out.'

The comm shut off and was replaced by the screeching noise of a torpedo just missing them; it rocketed past and blew up a Bajoran ship instead, and Sisko put his head in his hands. He'd been in battles before, lots of them, but none quite as confusing and messy as this one. The Jem'Hadar were forcing the left flank further and further back towards the station, the centre ground was a maelstrom of Klingon and Breen ships, and the Cardassians were zooming around here there and everywhere without apparent purpose. Not to mention this damned ship; if they were lucky, it had just been knocked off course and would run itself onto the mines. But Sisko doubted it; if he knew anything about it, it was a last-ditch attempt to reopen the wormhole, and if they succeeded, nobody would live long enough to regret it. Prophets, he thought, if you truly give as much of a damn about the Bajorans as they do about you, then now is the time to prove it...

'Ops to Defiant! They're doing something to the minefield,' O'Brien broke in on the comm. 'I can't work it out from here, but they've got some sort of deflector beam... it looks like they're – hang on, they've disappeared! Now where the bloody hell...'

'Stop them – ' Sisko began, and then he broke off, because an ancient, battered bird-of-prey had just shot past them crazily, almost collided with another ship and had to do an abrupt nosedive to avoid crashing, then pulled up so sharply in front of them that Dax barely stopped in time. A hail came through from the ship, and Sisko whacked the comm. What was a Klingon ship doing back here? Martok had taken them all off to deal with the Breen, and it was not like the Klingons to retreat in the middle of a battle – and more than that, since when would Martok allow a rusty old garbage scow like this into battle, especially when the helmsman seemed to be totally incompetent?

To Sisko's utter astonishment, the faces that appeared on the screen were not Klingon. They were not faces he thought he'd see again, either, but there they were, and he could even hear Bashir, Garak and Odo talking somewhere off-screen amidst the chaos of their bridge. He'd forgotten about this old ship.

'Major! Dukat! You're still with us? How?' he exclaimed over Jadzia's delighted shriek of 'Nerys!'

'Not for much longer, I think,' Kira answered. Her appearance was truly startling, until Sisko realised that it must be the remains of her Iliana disguise that had been partially removed, and Dukat looked even crazier and more beaten up than last time. Kira indicated the battle.

'Where's Sloan, what's he doing?'

'Sloan? But isn't he... '

Then it hit Sisko – Sloan wasn't on Cardassia directing the attacks from some ultra-safe bunker. He was here. He was in that ship going towards the wormhole with something terrible up his gelatinous sleeve. Sisko's head reeled, it was too much to take in. Dead people were alive, there was a Founder on its way to open the wormhole for the rest of the Jem'Hadar to flood through and make alive people dead, and they'd all just been totally blindsided: that huge fleet was more or less a distraction from the real attack, which would be coming from behind them, right through the Prophets' own backyard. And what would they do about it, even at their so-called Emissary's behest? Sisko knew that one: nothing, just like they always did.

'The wormhole,' he and Dukat said at the same time, then Dukat grinned mirthlessly.

'Looks like your people are in a bit of trouble there, captain,' he remarked, even as he was forced to flip his own ship wildly out the way of a Breen disruptor blast and he and Kira staggered against the console. 'However, I think I can help,' he continued, shoving himself upright and righting the ship. 'Damar, it seems your big moment has arrived! I hope you've got a speech ready...'

'Wait – Dukat, what are you talking about? What's happening?'

'You'll see, if you match our frequency and listen to what Damar's about to say. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised – I certainly am.'

'Dukat, what the hell is going on? This is no time for one of your games!' Sisko exclaimed furiously, but Dukat only grinned in that insufferable way of his.

'Don't worry about the rest of your line, Sisko, my compatriots will take care of that for you... You have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Oh, the look on your face almost makes it all worthwhile!'

'Prophets' sake, Dukat, you're meant to be piloting, not being a smug bastard!' Kira interrupted, shoving Dukat away from the screen, then turning back to Sisko. 'Is the minefield still up?'

'Yes.'

'In that case, we'd better move, because Sloan's here to take it down – and if those Dominion ships come through the wormhole there won't be enough left of us to bury. There probably won't be enough left anyway, but we're going to give it a damn good try anyway. Are you ready for this?'

Oh, how Sisko had missed that bold, ballsy defiance of hers as she grinned at him, then turned behind her and shouted, 'Start transmitting now, Damar!'

'Match their comm frequency, quick,' Sisko told Nog. The young Ferengi scrambled to obey, even as Sisko marvelled that Damar was mixed up in this too.

'Did she just say _Damar?_' Dax asked incredulously. 'I thought he'd be long dead by now!'

'So did I. God alone knows what's been happening on Cardassia, but I imagine it will make for a very interesting debrief once all this is over – '

'Got the frequency, sir!' Nog announced. 'Coming onscreen now, but it's not very clear...'

The Defiant's screen flashed up a grainy, blurred image of Damar – battered and bloody like the rest of them, but with an intelligence and a purpose on his face that Sisko had never thought him capable of. He looked like... he looked like Kira, in her more incendiary moments. Like a rebel. A revolutionary. And he sounded like one too, from the moment he opened his mouth:

'Attention all Cardassian fleets! You may have heard disquieting rumours of fighting and rioting on Prime. Or you may have heard nothing at all. You need know only this: from now on Cardassia is free once more and it is time to do things a new way. Comrades, the only proper way of announcing this to the rest of the quadrant is to show our former allies exactly what we really think of them. _Fire at will.'_

And so the tide turns, Sisko thought rather dazedly as the random, milling Cardassian ships moved as one for the first time in the battle, and turned on the Jem'Hadar with everything they had. Blinking himself out of his daze, he opened a line to the rest of the Federation fleet and the Klingons.

'Defiant to all personnel, Cardassian ships are no longer viable targets – repeat, Cardassian ships no longer viable targets!'

'Now the other shoe drops, eh, Sisko?' Dukat broke in cheerfully over the barrage of messages asking for clarification, which Sisko just ignored, staring at the sight of his enemies attacking each other. Now all they had to do was stop Sloan. Hah, _all _they had to do. First they had to find him, then work out what he was doing, _then _try and stop him, all before he managed whatever it was.

'Full-scale revolution? How did you convince them?'

'Me?' Dukat answered innocently, then laughed. 'Oh, you know, my impeccable skill at rhetoric and my deep-rooted and purely altruistic love of my people and my homeland, of course... Why, who in their right mind wouldn't believe _me _right from the get-go, with my record?'

Sisko heard Kira snort incredulously off-screen and Dukat shook his head, still smiling.

'Actually this, for once, had very little to do with me. It was all Iliana Ghemor's idea. Now, I believe we have a date with a certain Founder... I'd hate to be late, wouldn't you?'

Sisko looked into his old enemy's eyes across the grainy video link, and he grinned. Somehow, and he could only marvel that this had come about because of the Cardassians, of all people, they had a lot more of a chance now than they did an hour ago. Well, everyone else did, anyway.

'I'm game if you are. But we should only take one ship and there's no way I'm getting in that old tub, especially not if that was you driving earlier. Stand by, we'll beam you out.'

'Well,' Dukat remarked once he'd cut the comm. 'Damar, it seems to be that this is where you leave us. Sloan's my problem. You've got different things to do, like winning the battle, going home in triumph, sorting out the unholy mess that Weyoun and Broca left behind and getting Prime up and running again. Do try not to get killed, won't you? It'd be a shame for Cardassia's newest leader to die a mere ten minutes into the job.'

Kira was nearly as surprised as Damar looked. Was this Dukat, he of the endless ambition, admitting that someone else would do a better job than him at being top of the tree – and, moreover, willingly relinquishing all claims of his own to be top of the tree?

'Me? Lead Cardassia?' Damar croaked. 'You're not serious.'

'And what have you been doing recently, apart from leading? Cardassia needs to change, therefore it needs someone to change it...and that's not going to be me, is it? Besides, you've already done the hard bit, you've already won the fight, and now you just need to hang onto it.'

Damar looked at Dukat for a long, long moment, perhaps searching for one last game, one last lie, and Kira couldn't stop herself from searching too. But she couldn't see it. Either it was a really, really good one, or it wasn't there.

'What am I supposed to do with you if you survive?' Damar asked finally. Dukat laughed.

'Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something. Or you could ask Garak for advice, I'm sure he'll have lots of delightfully inventive ideas about what to do with me.'

Damar looked at Garak doubtfully, then back at Dukat, who shrugged as if his decades-long enmity with Garak had never happened. Kira could hardly believe what she was seeing.

'The way I see it, Damar, you're better off using his nasty little talents because then you're keeping him where you can see him, which was something I never managed to do.'

'You know something, Dukat? In your own rather confused and wrong-headed way, that was almost a compliment,' Garak remarked in the silence that followed, and he looked extremely surprised. Before Dukat could answer, Sisko hailed again.

'Defiant to Dukat, how many are we beaming out?'

Dukat looked at Kira, who nodded. There would be no more Iliana; she'd served her purpose. She was just a catalyst, not a reagent. Cardassia didn't need her any more. Now there was just Kira Nerys, who would be damned if she sat here and let all those Dominion ships come through the Celestial Temple into Bajoran space. She didn't have to fight for Cardassia any more, because they had Damar now. Damar, who would, by default, take his people down a different path than those who had come before him, simply by being who he was and what he'd seen and been through. She could fight for Bajor now, publicly, without hiding behind a mask. She looked over at Odo, who nodded too. Dukat considered it for a minute, head on one side looking at the pair of them.

'Well, this patch of space is where we first got mixed up in each others' lives; it seems only fitting that we leave them here too. Defiant? Three to beam out.'

Three? Kira was about to ask, then saw the look on Bashir's face and the look on Garak's. Three.

'Stand by, Dukat...'

'Good luck,' Damar blurted suddenly, the revolutionary idealism fading from his face a little; Kira noticed, perhaps for the first time, that he was really quite young for a Cardassian, and not at all sure about this vast new responsibility that had suddenly landed in his lap. Dukat shook his head as he rested his hand on Damar's shoulder briefly.

'Corat, you should know by now that luck has absolutely nothing to do with it.'

But he was smiling when he said it, a dry, gentle grin with a good deal of unhappiness behind it. Kira could barely bring herself to look at Damar or Bashir, or even Garak – because this could be the last time she ever saw them. Not that it would matter to her any more after this. So she stood still between Odo and Dukat, and tried not to think about it.

'Defiant to Dukat, we're lowering shields now. Ready when you are.'

'Energise.'

Seeing Sisko over the comm screen was one thing, but being physically in the same room as the big, solid, commanding figure of her Emissary made her feel like a child whose father had returned to make everything alright again – not that she personally had any experience of that, but she could imagine it felt very much like the bear-hug Sisko squeezed her in as soon as she got off the transport pad. After he'd greeted Odo in similar manner, the captain exchanged a long, hard stare with Dukat.

'Oh, I'm not even going to try to understand you any more, Dukat,' he said after a pause that went beyond awkward and out the other side. Dukat chuckled.

'It's like I said before: amazing what you find yourself doing when push comes to shove, isn't it?'

'No, I just meant... well, I thought you'd be commanding the Cardassian fleets.'

'In that ship? Hah!' Dukat was grinning, but Kira saw beneath the grin, and she saw that he'd made a difficult choice. He could have taken over again, and lived, and probably won power back – and nothing would have changed at all. But this time he'd gone the other way; he'd chosen to forsake Cardassia, and fight for Bajor and the Federation. Die for them. Because he couldn't do both.

'No, that's Damar's job now,' Dukat continued. 'You Federation types will be pleased to know that he's not at all like me, which is why he's there and I'm here. If you see what I mean.'

Sisko's face, already crinkled with confusion, gave up on him – but Kira just about understood. This was _shri-tal, _the Cardassian ritual in which those who are about to die reveal their most precious and tightly-guarded secrets to their closest family and friends – only Dukat, true to form, was doing it in his own special way, all upside down and back-to-front. Sisko sighed.

'Dukat, if we both survive this, you're going to have some serious explaining to do...'

'No doubt. And I'll also have to pay Quark an extortionate amount for a distinctly mediocre bottle of kanar – unless, of course, I can find a way to trick the greedy little pirate. Now, hadn't we better get on with it? I'd hate to think of all our efforts amounting to nothing. And I dare say your crew's nearly as short-handed as mine was – where should I fill in?'

'Anywhere but helm,' Odo snapped, 'unless you plan on taking down Sloan by crashing right into him. But personally I'd rather you didn't.'

Sisko caught Kira's eye and grinned as Dukat's eyeridges shot up his face indignantly.

'Major, you take the helm so Dax can get down to engineering and fix the shields. Odo, you take over on comms. Dukat... ordinarily I would question the wisdom of having a Cardassian on weapons, but I'm a little short of choice. You do remember where the Fire button is, don't you?'

'I'm sure I can work it out,' Dukat answered, matching the look in Sisko's eyes. Kira was struck, as she had been once before, by the similarities between two such different men. But then again, the bond between those who are about to die has never paid much attention to things like species. As they manned their stations – once Kira had her ribs squeezed once again, this time by one of Dax's infamous hugs – she looked over at Dukat. She had to know. She had to see if he'd tell her, now, at the end when everything was so important and, at the same time, nothing really mattered any more.

'Why are you doing this? _You,_ doing _this_?' she blurted. He shook his head, sighing.

'Because I've already tried all the other options, and because I'm not going to be around much longer, I can freely admit that each was worse than the last,' he answered. 'I can say that now. Nerys, are you familiar with _shri-tal?'_

'I heard Tekeny Ghemor's, didn't I? You should know that, you interrupted me in the middle of it!'

'Don't bring that up now!' he snapped, and she shut her mouth, astonished. His face fell a little. 'I'm sorry. But I want you to know, Nerys, that you were right.' He looked over to check nobody else was listening, then came closer to her.

'All my life,' he continued, slowly, softly, 'I've fought for Cardassia with everything I had, because I believed there was no other way. I believed I had to do things the Cardassian way, and that ultimately I could defeat the system from the inside by devising ever-more complicated plans. But you hated me, you questioned me, you refused to accept, and you made it clear that if I wanted you and what you stood for, I had to leave Cardassia behind and give up on the idea of beating the system. That's why I'm here. Because I have finally learned that I can't do both.'

She looked at him for a long time, although she already knew every feature of his face from memory. Those eyes she'd cursed for so many years, until she learned to read what was really behind them, or more correctly read what _wasn't _behind them, and the hate had turned to... not hate any more. And she knew all this already, of course. But what mattered was that he'd said it.

'Took you long enough,' she answered, but gently. 'That's why you saved my life, isn't it?'

'That's why I did all sorts of things. I just never followed them through all the way. Until now.'

That's when it truly hit her: they were going to die. It was a logical ending – for him, anyway. But she didn't want him to die. She wanted him to live. And she wanted to live. The brave new world that Damar would build on Cardassia would be beset with problems, but she wanted him to see it. And she wanted to see it too; her old enemies, finally admitting that the world had won.

'Alright, people,' Sisko announced, sitting down in the command chair. 'Let's get this over with. Odo, send out a hail. All languages, all frequencies.'

'Ready,' Odo announced. Sisko leaned forward into the comm screen.

'Sloan, I know you're listening. It's over. You've lost. The Cardassians are no longer your allies. Surrender peacefully and we will allow you and your people to return home unharmed.'

There was, of course, no answer. Sisko sighed.

'Well, it seems we're doing this the hard way. Let's go and find him, shall we? Major, set a course for the wormhole!'


	24. Valiant For Truth

**A/N: **OK, I couldn't get the whole final showdown in one chapter without making you guys wait even longer than you have already, so here's some of it. Draws heavily on Chimaera, Sacrifice of Angels and What You Leave Behind, without being remotely related to any of them. Also, this chapter is kind of sad... at least it was sad to write. Let me know what you think.

**A/N Supplemental: **The opening quotation is from The Pilgrim's Progress and later became the text of a motet by Vaughan Williams, also called Valiant For Truth (which, incidentally, was sung at the memorial service for Sir Laurence Olivier in 1989.) It is a very lovely piece of music and definitely worth a listen.

**24: MR VALIANT-FOR-TRUTH**

_And when he understood it_

_He called to his friends and told them of it_

_Then said he: I am going to my father_

_And though in great difficulty I have got hither_

_Yet now I do not repent of all the trouble I have been at_

_To arrive where I am_

– _John Bunyan_

'What do we do now, then?' Dukat asked as they approached DS9 and the minefield and Kira slowed them down. Back here, the battle seemed somehow very small and far away, though there were a few Jem'Hadar destroyers intent on giving the station itself something to remember them by. How Kira wished she could just ditch the whole thing, steer them back to docking bay whatever and go home – it was so close, so devastatingly near, yet she knew that none of them had much chance of ever setting foot there again. It was like being slapped in the face by your best friend.

'We wait for Sloan to show his face, I suppose,' Sisko answered, though he didn't sound very convinced. 'They've got a cloak, we've got a cloak, it's just a waiting game now. Odo, see if you can recalibrate those sensors, screen out some of the interference.'

'Got it,' Odo answered, already concentrating on the sensor console. 'What am I looking for?'

'I'm not quite sure. But sooner or later he'll do something that'll show up.'

'Like sneaking up behind us while we're sat here like idiots?' Dukat remarked snidely. 'Come on, Sisko, that's not much of a plan! I've got a much better idea. Arming forward phaser banks...'

'Now hang on just one second – '

Too late; Dukat had already brought the phaser banks round to bear, taken aim and blasted a mine on the edge of the field, though how he knew where it was, Kira could only guess. Sisko scowled as the shock-wave juddered through the Defiant, and when Dukat sighted again, he jumped up and knocked the Cardassian's hands away from the console.

'What the hell do you think you're doing? You just un-cloaked us! Look for him on the sensors, for God's sake, instead of just taking pot shots at any damn thing!'

'What, you have sensors that can detect a cloaked Jem'Hadar ship even through all that interference from the mines? Federation technology must be more advanced than I thought,' Dukat sneered. 'Look, if I don't do this, we'll be sat here forever while Sloan finishes his task _and _has time for a good laugh at us – now I don't know about _your _dignity, but that's well beneath mine!'

'Dukat, you fire that phaser again and I'll – '

'Do you want to finish this now or not?'

As Sisko sat there open-mouthed and Dukat fired off the second phaser round, the mine he'd hit produced a flare – a flare which showed up the faintest shadow on its far edge, the shadow of a ship jolting on a shockwave and starting to move further out of range, heading away from the wormhole and back towards the battlefield. Dukat turned to Sisko with a triumphant grin.

'There, see, what did I tell you? We've got him on the run now – let's get after him before he can call for help!'

'Yes, and he could still sneak round the back of us, which he's more likely to do now he knows where we are! Major, get after him, quick,' Sisko snapped, glaring at Dukat. 'And next time you fire phasers without being ordered, Dukat, I shall have you escorted off the bridge!'

'By whom? In case you haven't noticed, there are _five people _in your crew and they're all busy!'

Trying to ignore Sisko and Dukat's bickering, Kira fired up to full thrusters and crept back along the side of the minefield as fast as she dared, praying she wouldn't accidentally get too close.

'How the hell did you know what you were aiming at?' she asked Dukat distractedly as she held the course, sweating. One false move, one degree off course and they'd be little better than space dust. Dukat grinned nastily.

'I didn't. But I spent weeks pretending to work on disabling them, so I've got a rough idea of the area. However, if Weyoun's with Sloan, then so has he – probably much better than me. We'll have to be careful.'

'No shit,' Kira snorted. 'Odo, is there any way we can get the mines to show up on sensors?'

'Not that I can see,' Odo muttered, still fiddling with the console. 'There's far too much interference, and all those stray ion trails from the battle aren't helping. I'll keep trying...'

'You know,' Dukat interrupted loudly, 'if Mister Sisko would kindly allow me to _use _the phaser banks without it being signed in triplicate, I could light the way for you, so to speak.'

'Dukat...!' Sisko began furiously, then sighed. 'Well, I suppose it's better than nothing. Just don't get us blown up!'

Kira found it somewhat easier once she could see the shadows of the mines in the phaser beams, but what was much more troubling was that Sloan's ship had now completely disappeared. Could he have got round the back of them somehow? With the sensors so snowed out, they were little better than blind, creeping along at a snail's pace where one well-placed torpedo would knock them right into the minefield – she didn't like it at all. And what the hell was the changeling planning, anyway? The only sure-fire way to disable the mines was by using the deflector array on DS9, and he couldn't be there, because he was in that ship. Unless that was yet another trick? Maybe that ship contained nothing but Jem'Hadar, or dead bodies, or nobody at all.

'Captain, what if Sloan isn't on that ship? What if he's – '

She didn't get a chance to finish, because Odo shouted out a warning as a disruptor bolt smashed into them from behind, and in all the confusion it was sheer luck that she managed to point the Defiant's nose downwards as they veered off course, rather than into the mines.

'They're behind us!' Sisko exclaimed. 'Kira, loop round for another pass! Dukat, return fire!'

'Oh, typical! Now you actually _want_ me to fire, there's no power left!' Dukat shouted back. 'Engineering, can you send anything my way?'

'There's nothing to send, unless you want the shields to collapse!' Dax's crackly voice answered over the comm. 'Captain, we're in trouble; that shot ruptured a plasma cell – I've got to dump the whole thing or it'll blow!'

'Go ahead, Old Man,' Sisko replied, voice heavy with lack of hope; Kira could tell that even he didn't think they had much of a chance. 'Just be quick, or they'll come back round.'

'Never mind them,' Odo broke in hoarsely, pointing at the viewscreen. 'Look out there!'

The deflector dish.

The arcs of blue.

The winking, fading dissolution of their last barrier against the might of the Gamma Quadrant, as easy as flipping a switch. They'd got themselves crippled while chasing a shadow, and Sloan had crept round behind them and taken one more step ahead – the last step, the only one that really mattered. They'd got it wrong, and the Dominion were going to win.

'How?' Dukat said faintly. 'How did he do it? What did we miss?'

'Who cares how he did it? We've got to do something about it!' Kira exploded. She refused to let it end like this; she hadn't gone through all that on Cardassia, and succeeded, just to have it destroyed by the Jem'Hadar ten minutes later. Prophets, where are you? she thought desperately. Why aren't you listening to us when we need you most? Why aren't you stopping this from happening to Bajor?

'Damn you! I know you're listening!' Sisko was shouting, looking out at where he knew the wormhole was, the wormhole that in a few seconds would yawn open for the first time in months, spitting out the end of everything recognisable as the Alpha Quadrant. 'I know you know what's happening, so why don't you do something about it!'

'Sisko, even if these Prophets of yours do exist, it's abundantly clear that they couldn't care less about anything that's going on here, even if it involves their precious Emissary!' Dukat snapped, and even Kira was too far gone in horror to feel angry with him, though the believer in her was shocked at such blasphemy so close to the Celestial Temple. 'There's one way left to stop those ships from coming through, and it doesn't involve gods or demons. It involves just this ship and a lot of explosives...' Dukat continued, with the iron-hard set to his jaw that only a Cardassian who'd made his choice could have, '… and we've got to do it.'

'Collapse the wormhole,' Odo finished for him in a stricken voice. Kira and Sisko's jaws dropped.

'You don't mean it,' Sisko said slowly. 'We... we can't do that!'

The look in his eyes said otherwise, though, and Kira could see how much it hurt him to admit to it. She simply couldn't imagine doing such a thing – it was like killing a god. In fact, it _was _killing a god. But the Prophets couldn't be killed.

Could they?

'We can do it, or we can lose the war,' Dukat told him, 'though it won't make much difference to us in here, because we're going to be blown to hell whatever happens. You're the captain, you decide.'

'No. It's not up to us to decide this,' Kira said as she realised – of course the Prophets couldn't be killed, because they didn't exist within mortal parameters. They were beyond life and death: they _were _life and death. They had brought her here on this day with these people, they had taken her everywhere she'd been and showed her everything she'd seen – all of it, bad or good, had happened for a reason, and if they were to meet their ends here, then that was what had to happen. It couldn't be any other way, and it never had been.

'What d'you mean? Of course it is! We're the ones flying in there, aren't we?' Dukat retorted, but Kira wasn't listening; it was like someone else had control of her mind as she locked eyes with Sisko, her Emissary, the mouthpiece of the Prophets. He knew.

'We've got to look into the eyes of our own gods,' he said. He sounded like more than he was, and Kira knew that it was not really him speaking, any more than it was her thinking.

'We've got to meet this head on,' Sisko continued in that heavy, resonant voice that was his own but so much more. 'If that means destroying the Celestial Temple, then that's what we'll do.'

'And what about Sloan?' Odo interjected in the second or two of silence that followed, two seconds that felt like two years, in which Sisko's eyes glowed with something like holy fire and even Dukat, cynical, un-shockable, coldly logical Cardassian that he was, looked a little stunned, as if he was already staring a god in the face and wasn't at all sure what he saw there. In fact, Odo was the only one who seemed unaffected by Sisko's speech. Kira shook her head.

'I guess we just have to hope that someone else catches up with him once he realises his fleets have left him high and dry. The Prophets will deal with him, just as they'll deal with us.'

'No. That's not good enough.'

Odo had stood up, and he looked very tall in amongst the cramped consoles. His eyes were as cold and unfathomable as Kira had ever seen them, and she knew then that it was only him who could ever face Sloan. They were one and the same, and polar opposites, two drops of ocean borne on different currents which could mingle and combine but never flow in the same direction. The drop is the ocean is the drop. And she knew then, too, that this was where he left them. She'd never see him again. He tapped the comm and said, very calmly,

'Odo to Dax and Nog, could one of you come up here and take over on comms please?'

'Coming right away,' Dax answered, and even in a situation like this, the fact that it wasn't her usual cheery, breezy we-can-get-through-this voice was achingly significant. She knew, too, and as she came through the door, her normally sparkling eyes were wide and horrified.

'We're going in there, aren't we? We're going to blow up the wormhole,' she said softly.

'How did you know?' Dukat asked her, recovering a little composure, though he still avoided Sisko's incendiary, faraway gaze. Dax sighed, a sound with three hundred years of wisdom in it.

'It's the only option left, isn't it? All those people on the other side... all those planets...'

'It's the planets on _this_ side we have to worry about.'

And that was the fundamental difference in the way the Federation and the Cardassians saw the world, summed up in one exchange. Dax looked down at her hands, and Kira knew she was thinking about the symbiont. About how it wouldn't survive, any more than the body that was Jadzia Idaris. The planets on _both _sides were what they had to worry about, only they couldn't. There was no more time. There were no more half-measures, no more sidestepping or clever plans: just six people from six planets with one thing to do. They all knew it. As Odo stepped away from the comm panel for Dax to take over, Kira's heart lurched painfully.

'Odo, you're not really going to – '

His face stopped her from saying anything else, that calm, smooth face which was so open and so closed at the same time, and those ice-crystal eyes which looked at everything and really saw it as it was.

'It was always going to end like this, Nerys,' he said quietly, gruffly, his gentlest voice that conveyed more in its dry resignation than the loudest of anguished wails. 'This isn't my world, however much I try to pretend I'm at home here. It can't be any other way. I've known that for a long, long time, and so have you.'

She bit down on all of it, everything he'd meant to her over the years, and swallowed hard.

'I'll help you.'

She had to turn her head away from his gaze as she armed the outer airlock door, but, for the first and last time in their lives, he turned it back with his hand and looked her in the eyes. She let him.

'This is for you, Nerys. For all Solids, but most of all for you.'

And, for the last time, she couldn't take what he was offering her. It hurt too much when their fates had been sealed long before they even met each other, because of what they were and what they weren't, and yet he'd still spent all these years offering anyway. She looked past him, to the place where the minefield once was, and saw something small, a cloudy, shimmering haze, moving towards them.

'He's coming,' she said. 'Odo...'

'I'll follow you in. I'll bring him with me.'

His eyes met hers one more time as he sealed the inner door between them, and then he was gone, spinning out into space as the airlock door swung shut, drifting away into nothing. As she watched for a moment, vision blurred with tears, she saw what he really, _really _was.

'Odo, you're beautiful,' she said softly to the shimmering golden light that got smaller as the whitish-cold one got bigger. She didn't watch them collide. She went back to the bridge, sat down at the helm, shrugged all their concern and their sadness off, and steered the Defiant towards the wormhole once more. She was going to look into the eyes of her own gods.

She was going home.


	25. Eclipse

**A/N: **Well, this is it, folks. Incoming epic-ness. Hang on tight.

**25: ECLIPSE**

_And today we'll catch a glimpse of eternity_

_As the world stands still for a moment_

_And today we will be making history_

_As we all join hands_

_Just to watch the sky_

_For a moment_

– _Apoptygma Berzerk_

Going towards the wormhole this time was nothing like all the other times Kira had been through. This time, she noticed the colours, the beautiful jewel blues, fiery orange flecks and deep mauves, made all the more glorious through the prism effect of tears in her eyes. It yawned open like an embrace to receive the Defiant – that tiny, insignificant lump of metal and technology and invention, paling into nothing besides the eternal eye of the Celestial Temple – and she just wanted to dive into it and never resurface again. The Prophets were here. They would take care of her, as her father always told her they would. Almost involuntarily, her lips formed the shapes of the death chant, but she didn't know who she was chanting for. Herself? Sisko and Dax and Nog? Dukat? Odo? Or perhaps for the whole Alpha Quadrant, rendering it unto those who always knew the answer, because there was nothing else they could do.

Nog, who was watching from the doorway, stood tiny and open-mouthed, pointed teeth gleaming in the were-light of the wormhole, and Kira suddenly felt desperately sad for him; a young Ferengi, barely out of adolescence, standing here in the ultimate of profit-less endeavours, giving up his short life for Starfleet, for the rest of the quadrant, a thing very few other Ferengi would dream of doing. By contrast Dax was calm and controlled, an almost-smile on her face; if the Dax symbiont had to die, it would be dying for a cause, and this satisfied the Klingon side of her as well as the Trill side. Though it wrenched her three-hundred-year-old heart to think about how much Worf would miss her, about how he'd hate the fact that he wasn't at her side when she died, she knew he would approve. She knew Curzon would approve. And she knew, in every fibre of both her beings, that it was the right thing to do.

Dukat just stared. He'd never seen anything like it, he'd never experienced anything like this sense of terrible relief that flooded through him like the heat of the sun on his skin. It didn't matter any more. His Cardassia was gone. His complicated, crazy life of plots and schemes and cover-ups and lies and tricks and desperation and disaster and dilemma was over. He'd chosen this. For the last time in his life, perhaps the only time, he'd chosen the thing that would make a difference – he'd broken the chain, he'd taken off the mask, he'd stopped playing the game, because that was the only way to be free of it. Not winning for yourself. Winning for the things you really cared about, not the things you felt you should care about or were forced to care about. He would go happily to his death now, because he had admitted everything. There was nothing left to fight against. He thought of his precious Ziyal, who he had never done right by, who would miss him so terribly, who would now have a future without the mess he'd made of her past. He thought of Naprem, who never believed in the Prophets, but who he hoped he would see again. Maybe this time she'd be proud of him, rather than in spite of him. He looked over at Nerys – she who had killed him and brought him back to life, she who had surprised him and delighted him beyond measure by learning from him what he had never admitted to learning from her: to do things openly, to make the changes rather than react to them. To do things even if they killed you, rather than endlessly struggling to make sure they don't kill you in case you've done the wrong thing. To say what you mean and do what you believe in. Faith over fatalism, principles over pragmatism. The Bajoran way. He watched her lips move. Now they finally understood each other, he never wanted to let her out of his sight again. But he knew he could not go with her where she was going. But he would go cheerfully all the same.

'Why aren't they listening?' Sisko asked, breaking the silence. 'Why won't they act? Prophets!' he shouted out suddenly, voice almost cracking. 'Prophets, your people need you!'

Kira held her breath as the storm of colours around them seemed to swell and intensify, as if responding to the Emissary's call. So this was what a miracle looked like. But as she watched, waited, felt the strain of Sisko's calling as he searched for the gods again and again, nothing changed. She prayed harder than she'd ever prayed before. Prophets. Please. We need you.

'Dammit, what are you waiting for?' Sisko exclaimed. 'What else must we do?'

'They're coming!' Dax shouted. 'This is it!'

The viewscreen was full of ships. So many. So dark. So horrible, so alien against the blue light of the Celestial Temple – they did not belong, they were all wrong. And the Prophets still did not act.

'Where are you?' Kira screamed, not understanding. 'Why are you letting this happen?'

She felt betrayed, she felt bereft. Her gods had forsaken her. There were no miracles. It was the end.

'Their hands to act,' Sisko said softly, carefully. 'Their voice to speak...'

And there was light in his face, a whole world of it; his eyes burned, his skin glowed, and Kira knew the Prophets had acted. They had spoken to their Emissary. They were to make the miracle.

Their hands will act, their voice will speak.

She looked at Dukat, and he looked at her. They smiled a slow smile. They would die together, after one last dance. She was the propulsion, he was the precision; she the fire, he the steel. They made a good team.

'One shot,' Dukat said, cracking that grin of his. 'One good shot – they'll never know what hit them. Nerys?'

'Yes?'

'Promise you'll leave the Celestial Temple and visit me in the Fire Caves occasionally. I'll get terribly bored otherwise.'

'Visit you? Hah! I'll be down there with you, I expect.'

The smile that crossed his face made her want to live all over again. Wherever she was going, she hoped he was there. Her enemy, her partner, her other self. If they could not live together, in the world they'd done so much to destroy and to create, they would die together.

'Dax, Nog!' Sisko shouted. 'Give us everything you've got! Dukat, Kira, you know what to do!'

Dax and Nog scrambled for the consoles, the Defiant leapt forward in a burst of energy just as something golden and white shot past them, two tangling energies, crackling and sparking – 'Odo!' Kira shouted, half-delirious with adrenaline; he'd kept his promise, he'd followed her in, like she always knew he would – and the gold dragged the white with it right into the Defiant's path just as Dukat hit the torpedo and Kira hit the thrusters. The torpedo charomed perfectly off the side of the wormhole, spiralling back at them as they rushed towards the innumerable ships. Hate and the other one, right in the face. The timing was flawless.

The world exploded.

Sisko roaring out his triumph and his revelation in that great booming voice of his, tears streaming down his face and catching in his beard. Nog frantically gabbling the few Ferengi prayers he remembered, little hands squeezed over his ears. Dax laughing, hair flying out, all honour and battle-light and exultation, forever the most beautiful of all warriors. Down was up, up was down, hot and cold and wonderful and terrifying as Kira felt Dukat's hand close hard around hers for one last time in the chaos and the glory. Death was not blackness and dark and emptiness, it was all the colour and noise in the whole world, reflected back in brown eyes and blue, off grey skin and tan, off black hair and copper. They were fiercely alive. All they had was one last dance. They listened to the yes. Hate was love. Up was down. They lived a hundred lives, and none. They were free.

'For Bajor,' he said.

'For Cardassia,' she answered.

They smiled and held on tighter, clinging to each other in the storm. They were blinded and deafened. They held on. They were together.

They died.


	26. After The Fire

**A/N: **Har har, suckers, I got you good that time...

I agree with **Prizm, **ending with the previous chapter would have been rubbish, though I was kind of tempted. Only the epilogue after this, folks. Honest.

**A/N Supplemental: **If some of the tenses in this don't make sense, blame the Prophets. They don't understand linear time, after all. Also, the words are taken from Mendelssohn's oratorio _Elijah, _from the chorus called "And the Lord passed by." I'm not at all religious, but this seemed appropriate somehow.

**26: AFTER THE FIRE**

_And after the fire there came a still small voice_

_And in that still voice_

_Onward came the Lord_

– _Felix Mendelssohn, after 1 Kings 19_

Sisko knew where he was, even through the dizziness and the shock and the fiery pain all along his ribcage. It felt like coming home after a long hard day. The familiar warm-cold whiteness – he didn't fight it this time, he let it happen. He was with the Prophets now. He would see Jennifer again. He would see Curzon and his grandparents and everyone he'd missed for so long. But what of Jake, without a father? And Kasidy, who he could never marry now – he wished he'd asked her sooner. He thought of the station minus almost all its senior crew; what would happen to it now? Who would take care of it for him, who else would give a damn about a rusting old heap of Cardassian space-junk with an evil past and a bad reputation for attracting trouble way out of proportion to its size or municipal importance? All the enlisted personnel, all the civilian families, all the lost and dispossessed, the travellers and traders and fugitives and dreamers and waifs-and-strays who called the place home, however temporarily – what would become of them? That was out of his hands now, and while he felt the loss of it, he also felt the weight of the corporeal world lifting from the shoulders he no longer had.

The Sisko understands. The Sisko plays the game well.

That one looked like Odo, and Sisko felt a not just a pang of grief at what the changeling had done for them, but a whacking great sucker punch right in the face. He struggled through it and asked,

'Did we do it right?'

The Sisko is of Bajor, the Odo-prophet answered, and another one who looked like Curzon smiled warmly at him. He felt enveloped by that smile as if he was sinking into a bubble-bath, washing away the ache and the grit and grime and pain of physical existence. Was this what the old Bajoran mystics meant when they spoke of "being in the arms of the Prophets?"

The Sisko is our Emissary. The Sisko must return to his own place. The game must be played.

That was the one who looked like Jennifer. He felt an involuntary wave of loss, even after he'd seen the Prophets take her shape so many times before, because he could see her but not touch her or be with her or talk to her and have her talk back. They were showing him what he still could not have.

The Sisko is of Bajor. Bajor needs the Sisko.

'Then Bajor needs the others too,' he answered before he even knew what he was saying. But he meant it: if he was to be sent back – how? Where? Could this really be happening, was he really being given another chance? – then he needed the others. Kira, who drove him mad and made him see sense. Dax, who understood him better than he understood himself. Nog, who was so young and showed so much promise and really proved that the Ferengi were more than they appeared. Odo and his unique, unflinching quest for truth, Odo who had been lied to his whole life about who and what he was – even if he wouldn't be happy, he would be needed, and that was near enough. Even Dukat, with all his demons and his complexities – who knows what may happen if he gets the fresh start he needs so badly, Sisko thought wonderingly. Yes, even Dukat.

The Odo plays a different game. He must walk his own path and be with his own kind, said the Curzon-Prophet.

The others are of Bajor, as the Sisko is of Bajor, said the Jennifer-Prophet.

That mysterious, blurred smile, those piercing eyes that went right through him. Truly, one should not look into the eyes of one's own gods, for fear of what one may see reflected back. His past, his future. All of time in one look. He was the Sisko, chosen by these gods. How could he argue? How could he ask a question to which the answer was not in his capacity to understand?

The Sisko must return to the game.

He did not know why they were giving him this, only that it truly was a gift. He would see Jake again, and Kasidy. He was not to be reunited with those already gone, but those still here. He would see the world he lived in again, the real, here-and-now flesh-and-blood world in which his own skin was heavy and familiar and comforting instead of this strange ethereal lightness – and he would see it recover from the terrible things that had happened, with the natural resilience of civilisation. He would see it change. He would help it to change. He had a lot of work to do.

The Prophets let him go. He opened his eyes, and he fell.

* * *

><p>Kira had wondered what it would be like, dying; everything she had been taught suggested it was blissful and beautiful to be freed of one's physical body and become one with the Prophets, energy and light and pagh alone without the confines and limits of a corporeal form. She had not imagined it would hurt so much – her right hand felt cramped and mangled by some vice-like grip, her skin, wrecked by her Iliana disguise and again by Madred, was raw all over again, and her head was agony. But more than the pain, she felt a terrible, aching sense of loss far from the peace and acceptance of those who went willingly to the Prophets – yet she had gone willingly, hadn't she? Perhaps it would come. Perhaps it took a while to get used to. But that couldn't be right either. By all accounts, the body merely existed as a vehicle for the pagh while in the physical world, so she should feel like a child coming home to her family, which was a feeling she'd never really had. She didn't feel like that at all. All she felt was mixed up and wrong and very confused.<p>

And where was this white place? Some kind of spiritual limbo for those whose faith was not strong enough? She remembered a discussion she'd once had with Miles about Terran religions; in one of them – she forgot its name – the souls whose faith was not strong enough, or who had sinned during their lives, were held in a sort of cosmic waiting room until the end of time when their god would judge them, sending them either to paradise or to hell. Purgatory, it was called. Was that where she was? She knew she'd led a violent life and never really known how to atone for it; was this then her punishment? And what about all the other Bajorans who'd suffered like she had, who'd fought like she had, were they to end up here too, even though they had fought and killed in the Prophets' name?

'Prophets?' she said softly, her voice sounding very small and very scratchy in the vast echoing emptiness. 'Prophets, help me! Don't leave me here forever!'

The Kira is of Bajor. The Kira is one of ours. Yet she is afraid.

Opaka. That was Opaka. Yes, there she was, all that power and wisdom wrapped up in such a small, homely figure, looking just the same as she always had, ugly and motherly and wonderful. Kira wanted to hug her. She also wanted to hide her face in shame.

'Kai Opaka!' she blurted out. 'You're dead too?'

We do not understand "dead." We are not linear. There is only the game.

Kira didn't know if she still had a heart, but if she did, it would have stopped right then and there. The Prophets were standing right in front of her, in the form of Opaka, and she hadn't even realised. She fell on her knees and hid her face against the whiteness of the ground. This was her judgement day, and she was about to be found wanting. The Prophets' arms would not open for her after all.

The Kira is of Bajor, yet she is also of Cardassia.

Another voice she knew – male this time, soft and warm and dark, a tinge of Kardasi accent. Kira dared not raise her head. Perhaps that was her sin, helping Dukat and Damar and the other Cardassians? Should she have done to them what they had done to Bajor? But that would have meant even more killing, even more violence and death and hatred. Sometimes not acting was worse than acting, wasn't it? Or should she have done nothing? Should she have refused to cooperate with Dukat – oh, it was him! It was doing the unthinkably un-Bajoran thing that she'd done by learning that what she felt for him could change, and had changed, from hate to l–

'What else could I have done?' she stammered, wetness stinging her eyes. 'I had no choice! I couldn't help it! All those people I killed, it was in your name, Prophets! _Your name! _Even the Cardassians, I fought on their side in your name!'

The Kira is full of doubts. But she is strong. The Kira plays the game.

The feeling that rolled off the Opaka-Prophet's words was pure love, and it stopped Kira's heart all over again. Her gods, the beginning and the end of everything she knew – they loved her. They had opened their arms to her. _This _was what the scriptures meant, though no words in the world could even begin to describe it. She no longer hurt. She no longer had a body to hurt; she was pure pagh, floating, weightless, free from everything. She had come home.

The game must continue. The Kira must return to her own place.

'W-what? I – I don't understand,' she faltered, jolted back into her aching, heavy body – but this time, even though it hurt, it felt like putting on a well-worn pair of shoes, moulded exactly to her feet. Then she realised. She was being sent _back. _There were tales of this happening, amongst the older and more mysterious scriptures; if the Prophets decided that a person who had died still had an important purpose in the world, that person would be restored to life, though often with strange consequences. Kira only knew them as legends, folk-stories, miracle tales – the thought that it could happen to _her _was... astonishing. Beyond astonishing. It was sad, too, it felt like being sent away from her family when she'd just found them, but it also meant... it meant she'd live. She'd survive.

The Kira is of Bajor and of Cardassia. The Kira must use her strength to play the game well. The Kira must help our Emissary, for we are all of Bajor.

Sisko would live too? The world called. The Celestial Temple called back. She felt split in two – oh, it was too much, it made her dizzy – everything was so white, so many faces, and she was falling...

* * *

><p>Dukat's hearing returned first, though it was mostly just ringing and static and buzzing in his ears. Then smell took over: new blood and old, an unpleasanttinge of scorched armour and frazzled scales, and, inexplicably, clean fresh air. Then feeling. Cold down to the bones, yet a feverish kind of burning at the same time. A terrible pain behind his eyes. A strange grinding and crunching in the bones of his left hand. Why couldn't he remember what had happened? Sight should come back soon. Maybe seeing would explain things. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes. So bright! Intolerably white and featureless, like looking straight at a star from far too close – gods, it hurt! He groaned and shut his eyes again, squeezing his crushed hand over them. What was he lying on? Where was he? And, horrible thought, was this what the afterlife was like? A bitter disappointment – this empty, cold, blinding nowhere-land certainly wasn't what the old legends sang of.<p>

You are the Dukat. You are the only one of your kind to come here.

It sounded like his father's voice, or his own after drinking too much. It sounded like somebody who he doubted he could win against even if he had all his mental faculties, which he didn't. Right now he was tired and confused and sore and just wanted to hurry up and die already, if that was what was going to happen. And if not, he wanted someone to explain.

'Am I dead? Is this hell?' he asked; he knew it couldn't be heaven, because the others weren't here. He was hoarse and raw-throated like he'd swallowed fire. And he could feel someone walking near him, heavy thumping steps that somehow seemed to be inside his skull instead of in his ears. He wanted to get up, but it hurt too much.

You are of Cardassia. You play the game differently to the others.

Oh gods, if only it wasn't so bright he might have a chance in here, wherever the hell _here_ was, but he didn't dare take his hands away from his eyes; the light felt like it was burning through his fingers right into his retinas. What had happened to him, where had he been? He remembered... colours. So many crazy colours, so much noise – it was overwhelming. Sisko shouting, the satisfaction of firing a torpedo absolutely bang on target. Nerys's eyes. Being deliriously happy like never before. But this strange white emptiness was all wrong. He'd missed a step somewhere, he could tell. But he had no idea what the step might be. Perhaps his father's voice would tell him.

This one is aggressive. This one leaves no alternative, for himself or anyone else. He seeks to control, yet is always controlled. He fights for both sides because he cannot let go of either of them.

That was definitely the voice of Procal Dukat, silenced nearly forty years ago, yet still as slow and grave and forbidding as it had been during his life. But another voice spoke now – one that Dukat still heard in dreams from which he woke sad and confused, never remembering exactly who he'd dreamed of, only that he missed her. The voice of reason, always.

He is afraid to let go. But he has done it.

A tall, curly-haired woman in a dress the colour of an autumn leaf, brown eyes bright in her smooth, pale face – he knew that's what he'd see, if he could only open his eyes. How he longed to see her! But if this was the Bajoran afterlife, what was his father doing here? Never mind – could he touch her? Could he talk to her? Eight years' worth of words he'd never had a chance to say rose up in a big jumbled blot, but all he managed was a strangled 'Naprem? What – ?'

This is why this one fights. He is of Cardassia, but he wants to be of Bajor. He plays the game to be of Bajor.

He thinks the game is over. He is incorrect. The game is all there is. We do not understand "over."

That was Sisko this time, Sisko in full-on lectern-thumping fire and brimstone Emissary mode. Dukat didn't know whether to laugh or cringe. Here was his counterpart, sometime enemy, sometime ally, the man he had died with; their tangled history rushing up and hitting him in the face all over again. Was he to have no peace from all this even in death? It was too much.

'What's this game got to do with me? I'm dead, aren't I?' he answered, furious at these ghosts who could still keep him in the dark in such a bright place as this. 'I'm done, I've had enough. Leave me alone!'

He still does not believe! He does not even know the parameters of his own existence!

The Sisko-ghost was laughing at him, he could tell. And he couldn't even get up! Oh, this must be hell, he thought bitterly, doomed to be jeered at forever without being able to retaliate.

He chooses to end his existence, but there is no end. There is only the game, the Naprem-ghost explained, more gently. What his father never taught him and what he'd never learned from his own life, he learned from her. Always had. That still didn't mean he understood it.

'What game are you talking about, what do you mean?' he forced out of his bone-dry mouth. Silvery laughter; even she was mocking him now. It was intolerable. He clenched his fists, then cried out with the pain that flared in his left hand.

He does not understand. Yet he must play the game. He is of Cardassia, and of Bajor.

'No. No more games! I chose to stop playing, and I meant it this time.'

The Dukat must play the game.

He is necessary.

We do not understand "no more."

The Dukat must open his eyes.

And before he could shout out or stand up or even see, he was falling... falling...


	27. Epilogue: Arclight

**A/N: **Sniff. It's the end – the real end this time. Writing this story and its prequel has been a bloody long hard slog and I have to say I've enjoyed it immensely. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed/followed/left me lovely comments over the god-knows-how-long I've been working on this, and to all you lurkers too, even though I can't see you. I hope that reading it brought you even half as much happiness as writing it brought me.

**A/N Supplemental:** If any of you are writing Cardassian fic and want a beta or a second opinion, I'd be glad to volunteer – just let me know...

**EPILOGUE: ARCLIGHT (FORGET YOUR FEARS AND WANT NO MORE)**

_At first light lay proud foundations_

_Sense the greatness that before you unfolds_

_Seek no more for hollow answers_

_Answers that lay within you all along_

– _VNV Nation_

Kira's eyes snapped open. Grey. She could see grey. Patterns. A ceiling? Pressure on her right hand, a tight grip with strong fingers which she could feel even though the rest of her seemed quite numb. The smell of the infirmary on DS9. Yes, that was it. DS9. So it didn't get blown up after all, she thought blearily as a familiar face appeared in her vision.

'Hello, Nerys,' Sisko said softly, beaming his glorious ear-to-ear grin at her. He had the remains of a nasty wound on his forehead and the last two fingers on the hand he raised to touch her shoulder were wrapped in blue Starfleet-issue surgical dressings. 'Good to see you awake at last.'

She was too confused to speak, and all that came out was a jumbled blurt of half-words. What had happened? She remembered explosions. Chaos. Whiteness. Terror. Love. Faces and words which swam out of reach even as she thought of them, like a dream that dissipates on waking. And who was holding onto her hand?

'Help me sit up,' she mumbled dizzily. 'Can't talk if I'm lying down. What happened?'

'Major, only you would want to get up within five seconds of coming out of a two-day coma,' Sisko sighed, but he was smiling even wider as he said it. 'Well, you or possibly Dukat.'

'Where's he?'

Sisko jerked his head towards her right, and she turned her head painfully. Her right arm – bare, and its proper peach colour once more – was stretched out, her hand being gripped by a long-fingered grey one which she knew well. His eyes were shut and he had the remains of a bad burn down the side of his face, but he was alive. At least, he was breathing. She squeezed his hand, but he didn't react. But he was _there. _He was alive.

'But we _died! _I don't understand this,' she blurted. Sisko sighed.

'Neither do I. But it appears the Prophets have plans for us yet.'

'Dax? Nog? Odo?' She could hardly believe her ears. She'd _died. _They all had. And the Prophets had rescued Dukat, of all people? They'd been sent back, like the mystics in the old tales?

'Dax is waiting impatiently by the airlock for the Rotarran to dock, and Nog's with Rom and Leeta. Odo... Nerys, Odo's gone. We couldn't bring him back.'

She knew it, of course. She'd seen it happen, and she knew it wasn't something she'd get over in a hurry. But there was something behind Sisko's eyes that suggested he wasn't telling her everything. She wouldn't push. Better just to be alive.

'We won, huh?'

'It certainly seems we came off rather better than the Dominion...' Sisko began, then scowled as his commbadge went off.

'O'Brien to Sisko, the Rotarran's asking for docking clearance – where should I put them?'

'Anywhere there's space, Chief. I'll be right up.' He turned back to Kira and looked at her, kind and stern at the same time. Prophets, it was really him. She was really here, alive. Nobody could imitate the Emissary.

'I don't want you up until at least tomorrow, Major, and that's an order!' he announced. 'We've got a hell of a lot of sorting out and cleaning up to do, but it can wait until you're fit. We're not going anywhere.'

And that was the honest truth, she thought wonderingly as Sisko smiled down at her, then hurried away. She gripped Dukat's hand again.

'Come on, let go of me,' she told him. 'I can't lie like this forever.'

Actually she wouldn't mind – Prophets, how easy it was to admit it now! – but her shoulder was getting stiff and she couldn't push herself up in bed one-handed. She shook him one more time, and said his name. It felt funny on her lips for the first time, but not unfamiliar. In fact, it felt... appropriate. They'd been through the fire, they'd lived and died, they'd hated and loved and everything in between. She could say it now. It worked, too; he moved a little, and his grip finally eased off on her hand as his eyes flickered, then opened, before he groaned and put his hand over them.

'There, that wasn't so hard, was it?' she muttered, massaging some life back into her hand. It had five bruises on it in the shape of his fingers and thumb, while his had five corresponding dents in the scales from her.

'Hmm? Whassat?' he slurred. 'Nerys? Can't see you.'

'Then take your arm off your eyes, idiot. Turn to your left.'

He turned his head, slowly, painfully. His face was a mess and one neck-ridge was heavily bound in the blue surgical tape, and his eyes were cloudy and bloodshot.

'Still can't see you. That white place was too damn bright, made my eyes hurt. Are we still there?'

She smiled, although it hurt the new skin on her face. They'd survived. They'd won. And he had seen a _white place_. Skrain Dukat, former Prefect of Bajor, had seen the Prophets. That really proved it: love and hate and _everything _in between.

'We're on DS9. We survived.'

'Terok Nor, you mean,' he answered through a jaw-cracking yawn. She snorted.

'I mean DS9, which is why I said it. We won the war, you know. The Dominion are gone.'

'Oh good,' he answered tiredly. 'I feel terrible. Can I get on with dying now?'

'You've already tried that more than once, remember? It didn't work.'

'Of course it didn't. Nothing I do ever works. Well...'

She waited for him to finish, but even as she watched, his eyes closed and he fell asleep mid-sentence, his hand hanging off the side of the bed. She studied his sleeping face for a while, propped up on one elbow. What would they do now? Where would they go? Starfleet would want to arrest him again, no doubt, but this time she'd fight it, and she'd get Sisko to help her. Once you'd died together, that made even the worst of enemies closer than kin. It wouldn't be easy, certainly, and she doubted that there would ever be such a thing as true peace in this part of the quadrant. Then she smiled; she'd thought of another of Miles O'Brien's proverbs. Where there's a will, there's a way. And perhaps for the first time, the will was there between Cardassia and Bajor and the Federation. They'd find a way.

She reached for his hand again. His fingers almost automatically curled against the bruises on her skin, just as hers settled into the dents in his scales. Then she lay down flat and closed her eyes. Never mind where they would go and what they would do – what mattered is that they were still here.

And for now, that really was enough.

**END TRANSMISSION.**


End file.
